The Red Scarf
by haleigh.l
Summary: Posted in its entirety due to extreme angst. This is my version of a back-story for Ranger. Half is set present-day, half 8 years ago in Kosovo. Author's note explains more. Babe story.
1. Author note

On March 31, 1999, one week after NATO began bombing Kosovo, three soldiers from the 4th Army Division were captured while patrolling the border between Serbia and Macedonia. Their humvee had become separated from their division, and they took fire from Yugoslav forces. They were tried as spies in Pristina, Kosovo. The three were held prisoner of war for thirty-six days before being released to an Inter-Faith humanitarian delegation, which included Rev. Jesse Jackson, each having sustained various injuries.

But what if one of those soldiers had been killed in Pristina. And what if those soldiers had not been Army Infantry, but Army Rangers.

_This is that story._

All facts presented are as close to historically accurate as possible, apart from the two changes outlined above, and allowing for some imagination to fill in the gaps. If you have any questions about what is historical and what is my imagination, please email me. Specific information on fact vs. fiction will also be posted in the epilogue.

_Please note that this story contains graphic violence, coarse language, and an excessive amount of angst. If you are easily upset or offended, please do not read. There is, however, a very happy ending. _

_It is a R/S pairing, not particularly Joe friendly, and is set post-LMT but only tiny spoilers. I own none of the characters, and make no profit._

Two points of clarification:

All translations are into Serbo-Croatian. Some of the speakers would have spoken a specific dialect of Albanian rather than Serbo-Croatian, but I don't have the ability to translate that. Please forgive the liberty, and if anyone speaks Kosovar Albanian, let me know.

Second, the trial in question for this story is prosecuting President Milutinovic, who was the President of Serbia, and is currently on trial in front of the ICTY. Slobodan Milosevic, the President of Yugoslavia, died before the end of his trial. The names are similar enough to cause confusion, but I wanted to use real names as much as possible. Additionally, all names used in the flashbacks are accurate, I simply removed surnames to preserve some anonymity.


	2. Chapter 2

March 12th, 2007

RangeMan Trenton

My father used to say, _the past always tells_. As a kid, I had laughed. 'Tells what?' I'd ask. As an adult, I learned that past doesn't just tell. It comes back, demands things of you that you couldn't possibly give.

The phone rang three times before I heard a gruff 'hello.'

"Papa," I said, instinctively reverting back to the Spanish I had grown up speaking.

There was silence. I talked anyway.

"I got a subpoena today to testify in Milutinovic's trial," I said.

"I thought the prosecution was done." The first words he had spoken to me in eight years.

"It's for the defense," I said.

My father didn't say anything for a moment. "Carlos," he finally said, "I know what happened that day you went to Djakovica, which was the stupidest thing you've ever done. I know what those damn Serbian soldiers did. And I know what you did. You have a choice here. You can help defend that smug son of a bitch, or you can tell the truth and actually do the right thing for once in your fucking life."

A click is all I heard to alert me that my father had hung up.

The receiver slipped through my fingers, falling crooked on the cradle.

I picked up the paper from the desk and read it again. The subpoena that had the potential to destroy the life I had built.

A tinny computerized voice drifted through the receiver saying 'if you'd like to make a call, please…'

I anchored the phone receiver in the cradle, severing the last of the connection to my father. _Connection_. Who was I kidding? There hadn't been a connection between my father and I for eight years now. Not since Djakovica.

My father was, is, a great man. A man who should have inspired me to greatness as well. Instead, I had resented him. I'd hated being compared to him. Always being asked if I was Manoso's son, and being judged on that fact, first and foremost. _He's the most honorable man I've ever met_ was a phrase I heard over and over again while in the Army. _You must be so proud to be his son_. In the end, he made no secret of the fact that I let him down.

I looked back at the subpoena.

_Command Sergeant Major Manoso:_

_You are hereby summoned to testify before the International Criminal Tribunal for the former Yugoslavia, under the authority of the United Nations, regarding events occurring on or about 31 March to 3 April 1999, in or around Kumanovo, Macedonia and Djakovica, Kosovo._

_Council for the defense of President Milutinovic has requested this summons._

That was the line I had dreaded seeing, the line that could destroy everything. The Council for the defense. I was being asked, no required, to defend a man who had blithely ordered the slaughtering of millions.

I finished reading the notice.

_You are required to arrive in The Hague, The Netherlands, on or before 1 September, 2007, and register with the United Nations. Your testimony will begin on or about 3 September, 2007. Please allow 4-6 days for your testimony. If you need assistance in making accommodations, please contact the Office of the Prosecutor at 31+(0)70-512-4867. _

_This issue is a binding order. Failure to comply will result in notification to the United States Military Justice system. _

I tossed the paper back on my desk.

…

"I don't know what to tell you, Carlos. They can't force you to testify. They can request that you go, they can threaten, but under international law, you cannot be compelled to talk."

I ran a hand through my hair and adjusted the phone on my ear as I listened to my lawyer. "The subpoena said something about notifying the military justice system."

"Sure. They'll send a letter saying that you didn't comply. And JAG will drop it in your file. That will be the end of it. The military doesn't want their soldiers testifying about things that happened during a war. In fact, testifying could land you in a whole heap of trouble with the Army."

"What kind of trouble?"

"At the very least, you'll lose your government contracts. At worst, you could be court marshaled. I'm sure they can come up with something about revealing classified information."

"But if I don't go, I'm helping the defense."

"That's the point. The defense council isn't stupid. They know that no American soldier is going to testify. They're going to use the fact that you didn't show up to implicate you, say that you were an accomplice, or worse, say that you instigated the whole thing.

"Look," Jonathan continued, "Djakovica was a nightmare. They still haven't found all the bodies. No one knows who killed who or who ordered what or who turned a blind-eye. All Milutinovic has to prove is that he didn't know what was happening and he's off the hook. He needs to prove that someone else started the massacre. Who better to blame than some rouge American Army Rangers who weren't supposed to be anywhere near Djakovica and showed up carrying a grudge. Fuck, Carlos. I told you when it happened that this was going to come back to haunt you someday."

"So what do I do?"

"Nothing. You shred the subpoena."

"Milutinovic could get off. And I go down in the history books for committing genocide."

"They would be allegations only, and I doubt the information would make it's way into fourth grade history. Milutinovic is going to get off regardless. I've been watching the trial. They don't have enough."

"And if I testify, if I say what happened in Djakovica, what happens then?"

"Milutinovic gets the gas chamber for crimes against humanity, you get a firing squad for treason."

"They're not going to execute me."

Jonathan sighed. "No. But you'll lose RangeMan. They'll strip you of every government contract you have. You'll be a pariah. You'll be lucky if you get a job as a night security guard at the mall."

"But Milutinovic gets convicted."

"Possibly. Maybe. It'd still be a long shot. And it wouldn't change anything. Milutinovic didn't pull a trigger, Carlos. Ten thousand Serbian soldiers marched through Djakovica. And where are they now? They're sitting at home, drinking German beer and fucking their fat wives."

"But there would be some justice at least."

"Milutinovic getting the gas chamber isn't justice. It's a political ploy to make the world feel better. You have employees to think about. Clients. You would lose everything if you testify, and for what? So one sick, old man dies a few years early?"

"So that the truth is told and justice is served."

Jonathan snorted. "Those are nice ideals, Carlos. But an International Court isn't strong enough to serve justice, and we both know it. For millions of Kosovar Albanians, there will never be justice. You playing a martyr isn't going to change that."

"It's the right thing to do."

"It's a stupid, self-serving thing to do. You want something to assuage your guilt for what you did. Blabbing your mouth in front of the tribunal isn't going to do that. Besides, what about Stephanie?"

I bristled. "What about her?"

"Those transcripts will be public record. You want her to know what went down that day? What you did?"

"She doesn't need to know any of it."

"She will if you testify."

I didn't reply.

I heard Jonathan sigh on the other end of the line before he spoke again. "Look, I can't advise you to testify. You'd be destroying your life for an ideal, one that we both know doesn't actually exist. But that blasted moral code of yours… If you're going to do this, you have six months to fortify RangeMan with non-government accounts. Maybe it would survive that way. But you're better off consolidating into one office. I'd suggest Miami."

"You just want to be near the beach."

Jonathan chuckled. "That, and there's enough non-government security in Miami to hold you afloat. And for god's sake, Carlos, don't take Stephanie with you. Don't put the poor girl through this."

I sighed, my heart clenching painfully at the thought of walking away from Steph. "I just wish there was a quick-fix here. An easy way out."

"There is," Jonathan said, his exasperation evident. "Shred the fucking subpoena."

…

I slipped into Stephanie's bedroom, feeling my way through the darkness. I was no closer to a decision on testifying. But RangeMan Trenton was officially closed. The employees I didn't need were let go; the ones I did need were transferred to Miami. Without making a blip in the gossip of the Burg or the Trenton underground, computers, equipment, firepower, and personnel had been loaded onto private chartered planes bound for Miami International Airport.

I had designed RangeMan that way, able to be closed in a moment's notice, to disappear without leaving a trace. I just never thought this would be the reason. We'd been halfway packed up during the Homer Ramos mess, before Steph had accidentally saved the day. Even if she had the power to do so this time, I wouldn't let her. I wouldn't, couldn't, put her through that.

I shouldn't have come here, to this space. I looked at the bed, the one place we had made love. A bed I had slept in when I need her, needed her comfort. I should have simply climbed on the plane with Tank. But I couldn't. I had to see her one last time.

She was sprawled out on the mattress, on her back, a small smile playing on her lips.

I studied her, wanting to remember the moment.

I lay down next to her and ran my hand over her stomach, under the black tee-shirt she wore which used to be mine. She instinctively turned toward me and scooted closer.

Leaning down, I kissed her neck.

"Mmm…Ranger?" she said.

"Hi babe."

She scooted even closer to me, more awake now, but keeping her eyes closed. I grabbed her bottom leg, and slid it under me, so that it was taking up the space between my waist and my hip.

She wrapped her top leg around me, hooking her ankles behind my back.

I kissed her neck again, savoring the taste of her for the final time, and started to pull away. "I have to go, Babe."

She tightened her legs around me and laughed, a sleepy, husky laugh. "No way. You're stuck. You're mine now."

I took a deep breath, cursing myself for doing this to her. "Babe," I said, "I have to leave town. I came to say goodbye."

Her eyes flew open, all traces of laughter and sleep gone. "How long? When will you be back?"

I didn't answer. Instead I watched as understanding changed her features from concerned to hurt.

She jerked her leg from over top of me, and tried to move away. But her bottom leg was stuck, my weight pinning it down.

She jerked again. "Get off me," she said in a hoarse whisper.

I lifted my hip, and she wiggled her leg out from under me. She lay on her back, and closed her eyes.

I ran my finger down the side of her face, and felt her flinch. Closing the space between us, I kissed her cheek, her jaw, her neck. She didn't open her eyes.

I kissed her lips, sliding my tongue across the seam of her lips. She sighed, parting her lips, grating me access. I shifted so that my body was covering hers, my hands cradling her face, trying to give her all the passion and love and regret I felt through one kiss. She made a sound that was somewhere between a whimper and a sob before wrapping her arms around my back and pulling me as close to her as I could get.

I ran my hand down her stomach, the inside of her thigh, wanting nothing more than to bury myself inside of her. To pretend, for one moment, that she belonged to me. To pretend that her love for me was unconditional, and strong enough to survive what I was about to do to her.

But I couldn't leave her like that. I drew my hand back up her body, just barely touching the outside of her breast before smoothing the hair off her forehead.

By the time I pulled away, her face was wet with tears, though her eyes were still closed.

"Babe, I…" I trailed off, having no idea how to explain. There was no response.

I stared at her, memorizing her face. I got up and walked toward the door. When I turned back, she had sat up and was staring at me. The emotion I could read in her eyes was one I hadn't seen there before. Betrayal. It seared through me, making me long to change past events that simply couldn't be changed.

"Goodbye." Her whisper floated across the room, swirling through the darkness. Haunting me.

I turned and walked out.

…

I posted this story in its entirety, because I couldn't stand the thought of making you wait between chapters. However, if there's anything that strikes you, or if you have any comments on each chapter while reading, please still review! Oh, and for those of you on my alert list, sorry you got 16 emails.


	3. Chapter 3

Wednesday, March 31st, 1999

Kumanovo, Macedonia

"They should put up fucking flags, you know that?" Tank said. He shook his head and lifted his binoculars. "This is ridiculous. How the fuck are we supposed to patrol the border if no one knows where the damn border is?"

"Just make sure we stay on this side of it," I said.

Lester grunted, trying to navigate the barely paved road. The humvee lumbered down a hill, onto the grassy mountain slope before he was able to jerk it back onto the road.

"Damn it, Santos!" Tank said. "Can you drive a straight line?"

"You've got the map, find me an actual road and I'll keep it on it."

"If you go across that border…"

"Oh shut up, Tank. We're three kilometers south. There's no way we cross it. When'd you turn into such a pussy anyway?"

"About the time we were told we couldn't shoot anybody."

"Right," Lester snorted. "I keep forgetting. We're peecekeepers now. Who do we work for? I've lost track. The UN? NATO? Cause I know Uncle Sam wouldn't have gotten us into this shit."

"You work for me," I growled. "Try concentrating on the damn road."

That shut them up for a moment. Then Lester said, "Still, it's a shit assignment. Infantry guys could be doing this."

I didn't reply. Of course it was a shit assignment. And by this time next week, it would be infantry soldiers. But for the moment, we were trying to discern Serb movement without actually crossing into Serb territory. The General wanted a little more finesse, and the information a little more classified, than infantry would have gotten him.

I adjusted my binoculars, trying to figure out what I was seeing. I clicked on my radio. "Cayhill, you see this?"

"Yeah," his voice came back through the speaker. "We're headed north."

"Looks like you've got three kilometers till the border."

"Roger." Cayhill clicked off.

I glanced out the window, but couldn't see the third humvee in our group.

"Damon," I said into the radio. "Cayhill's headed north."

"Roger. We're taking a break."

I got his location and directed Lester toward it. We needed a break too. It was after 1400 hours, and none of us had eaten. The air in the humvee was close and sweltering, even though the outside temperature was only in the 40's.

"Cayhill," I said back into the radio, "meet us at the north end of this road when you come back. Let's group up. We need a plan."

"Roger."

Lester ground the big humvee to a stop a few yards from where Damon's sat. We climbed out, breathing in the cold mountain air.

Damon walked up to me, chugging on a cigarette. He pulled off his helmet and dropped it on the ground before running a hand through his dark blond hair that was wet with sweat. "Were those people, to the north?"

I shook my head. "Cayhill's checking. There's been some talk of refugees, may have been."

"Were a hundred miles from where the KLA is fighting."

"You're desperate enough, you can walk a long ways."

Damon flicked his cigarette to the ground and rubbed it out with his toe. "We're supposed to stay out of it. Though god knows Cayhill won't. Heart's too soft for his own good."

Damon was right. If the line of dust we saw, the movement, was a river of refugees, Aaron would try to figure out what they were fleeing from. Where they were going. How he could help.

I picked up my radio. "Cayhill, what do you see?"

"Definitely people," he said. "I'm guessing refugees. Most are carrying suitcases or bags. Looks like a limited KLA escort."

"Don't approach. KLA is already jumpy, we don't want to spook 'em. Come on back and we'll game plan."

"Roger." Cayhill clicked off.

"I thought the KLA was on our side," Damon said, lighting up another cigarette

"Who the fuck knows anymore. And chain smoking will kill you."

"So will the Serbs."

True.

Lester ambled toward us. "What are you two ladies gossiping about? Your pretty wives?"

"You just wish you had a pretty wife to go home to, Les," Damon said.

Bobby, walking up behind Lester, snorted. "Don't we all. Though I think Cayhill's wife is the prettiest."

Damon raised an eyebrow.

"Don't get me wrong, man," he said quickly. "Nadia's hot and all, but that blonde hair Laurel's got…"

"And I'll bet her titties are bigger too," Lester said. "Don't they get bigger when you're pregnant?"

"Yours will," Damon said.

But Lester and Bobby were both stared into space, visualizing, I'm sure, Cayhill's blonde goddess of a wife.

"He's going to kick both your asses," I said.

"Nah," Lester said. He grabbed the radio. "Hey Cayhill, how's the hot little wife of yours doing."

"Sick as a dog," Cayhill said through the speaker. "Last time I called, she couldn't stop puking long enough to talk to me. And get your mind out of the gutter or I'm going to kick your ass when I get back there."

Lester laughed and turned to me. "How about you, Ranger Man. Didn't you just divorce your pretty wife? She was hot too, even if she is kinda young."

"Watch your step, soldier," I said.

Lester laughed and clapped me on the back. "We're in the middle of the fucking mountains, man. You still think I'm gonna stand up straight and salute you? Besides, aren't we UN now?"

I tugged on the baby-blue scarf inside my fatigues. It clashed with the NATO helmet I had left in the humvee. "Who the fuck knows. But even peacekeepers still salute, dumbass."

He clicked the heels of his combat boots together and gave me a mock salute. He leaned over and grabbed the pack of cigarettes out of the helmet Damon had left sitting beside him.

"Fuck, Santos. That's my last pack."

Lester grinned and stuck one in his mouth. "You gonna write to Nadia and tell her that the boys at school stole your lunch?"

Damon just stared at him as Lester lit the cigarette. He took a pull and immediately started choking. 

"Fuck!" He handed it back to Damon while Bobby smacked him on the back. "Where the fuck did you get those?"

"From a Macedonian vending machine." Damon took a drag and blew the smoke in Lester's face. "Not as good as Camels, are they?"

Lester coughed again. "That shit will kill you man."

I ignored them as they continued to banter back and forth. Lester could be a pain in the ass, but he was usually amusing enough to break up a long day. And someday he'd grow up enough to be a damn good soldier. He was only 19, the youngest of the group and four years younger than Damon and I, so he got the brunt of the pranks. Though that smart mouth of his had already gotten him beat up more times than I could count.

I scanned the mountains for Cayhill's humvee, but nothing so far. "I'm getting a bad feeling about this."

Damon looked at me and instantly sobered. "Suit up, men. Headed north?"

I nodded and tried the radio. "Cayhill, where are you?"

There was no response for a minute, while the younger guys got the humvees ready to roll. Damon and I stood between the two vehicles and tried again.

Finally, the other side crackled to life. "These refugees are from Djakovica," Cayhill said. "There's some nasty shit going down up there. They left when the first bombs were dropped six days ago, and have been walking along the border toward Bulgaria since."

"God damn it, Cayhill. What part of 'do not approach' didn't you get?"

"I was getting us intel, isn't that the point of this shit assignment? And there's kids here, man. Lot's of 'em."

"What's your position?"

He gave me the markers.

"Get back here," I said. "Now."

"Roger. But we may need to head for Djakovica. If half this shit is true…Fuck!"

The sound of gunshots reached us, crackling through the still cold air, before we heard it through the radio.

Damon and I both took off a dead run for the humvees. Lester and Bobby already had both moving before we got there. Tank held the back door open for me and launched me inside.

"Go north," I told Lester. "2.5 kilometers." I slapped the now silent radio against my hand and barked into it. "Cayhill, what's happening?"

"Serbs firing on the refugees. We're moving down there."

"Pull back, Cayhill. That's an order. We are not to engage."

"There's not enough KLA soldiers to hold back the Serbs."

"Do not engage!"

"Come on, Cayhill," I heard Damon say in his radio. "This isn't your fight. Pull back."

"That's an order, Cayhill," I said.

"Fuck your orders, Manoso. It's all women and children down here, and KLA is dropping like flies."

Before I could say anything else, I could hear, through the radio, our sniper rifles as Cayhill, Stone, and Gonzales opened fire on the Serbs.

"Fuck. How far away are we, Lester?"

"Still another kilometer to go," Lester said, pushing the humvee as hard as he could over the rough terrain.

Cayhill's radio was still on, and a moment later, I heard gunshots explode against the humvee. My gut clenched up, but by then my adrenaline was high enough to keep me calm, objective.

"Report, Cayhill."

"Small arms fire. Gunmen unknown. No casualties."

"We're one kilometer out."

"Roger."

I could still hear gunshots behind his words on the radio, but the big humvee motor downed out any other sounds.

It took four minutes to reach their position. People lay scattered on the ground, some in tattered, dirty rags, some in fatigues with red arm bands. The smoking US Army humvee was empty.


	4. Chapter 4

Wednesday, August 22nd, 2007

RangeMan Miami

I zoned out the conversation buzzing around me. My crack-pot legal team. Jonathan had assembled an entire team when he became convinced that I was going to testify.

I wasn't so sure.

I stared out the window of the conference room at the blinding sun, white beaches, and crowds milling around in bikinis and swim trunks. Summer in Miami, in all it's un-clothed glory.

I was scheduled to check in with the UN in nine days. By September 1st – all three subpoenas had been adamant about the date – I had to be in the Netherlands.

"Repeat after me, Carlos."

I glanced up at Jonathan and raised an eyebrow.

"As an American soldier, I am not at liberty to discuss classified information or wartime troop activity."

I parroted it back.

"Think of this like a movie," Jonathan said. "You have a one-line role. You memorize that line, and you say it. You don't improvise, you don't say anything else, and you sure as hell don't spill your guts."

I nodded distractedly and stared back out the window. Three floors below us, a woman in a black bikini was climbing out of a mini-cooper. Her brown hair swam in wild curls around her face, and she distractedly pushed it out of her face.

"I still think we need to call Ms. Plum. She's our best chance."

I blinked and focused back on the room in front of me. Jonathan was shooting daggers at Lawyer C.

"Not acceptable," Jonathan said. "What about Laurel Cayhill. Has she agreed to come?"

I glanced back out the window, watched her push sunglasses over her eyes, grab a beach bag from the backseat. "What about Stephanie? Why are you calling her?"

I stared at Lawyer C until he blinked and looked down at his notes. "Well, mmh, we had been discussing possibility, of uh—"

"She's not involved in this," Jonathan said. He turned toward me. "The whole point of leaving Trenton was to keep her away from this."

Lawyer C made some clucking noises and nodded. That's what I had taken to calling them. Lawyer B, Lawyer C, and Lawyer D. There were some Paralegals (E and F) and a secretary (G) floating around as well. G was currently clacking away on a stenographer's machine.

It was all bullshit. I was going to testify or I wasn't, and a team of lawyers wasn't going to make a difference in the outcome.

I leveled a gaze on Jonathan that made sweat start to bead on his upper lip. "What about her?"

Jonathan sighed and pushed his chair back. "It's irrelevant, Carlos."

I continued staring.

"Fine," he said. "If, _if_, you testify, the defense council is going to slaughter you. They're going to do everything they can to discredit you. They're going to turn you into a reckless leader who dragged his troops on a suicide mission to avenge Cayhill's death."

"He didn't die until a week after the massacre in Djakovica."

"Right. And we'll make that clear. We've also asked Laurel to attend. Show that she doesn't hold you responsible for Cayhill's death. That should help. A widow in attendance always helps, especially if she brings the kid."

I ignored the crass remark that was designed to get me off the subject of Steph. "What does Stephanie have to do with it?"

"We need anything we can get to make you look respectable. A family goes a long way toward that. All of a sudden, you're no longer a rouge soldier, but an honorable one that was just trying to do the right thing for your friend. A good, honest family man. Mom, apple pie, and the flag. Quintessentially American."

"The tribunal isn't American."

"No, but the panel who turns around and court-marshals you will be. And a pretty, young wife who sits and cries during your testimony will go a long way toward you walking away from this unscathed."

I looked back out the window, but the woman was gone. "No."

"I know. And we'll avoid that possibility at all costs." Jonathan paused and cleared his throat. "The reason we haven't brought it up is because I know you won't allow it. But Carlos, it might be something worth considering."

I turned to face him. Another bead of sweat appeared on his lip. "I don't want her to hear this information. I certainly don't want her in the court room."

I could see Jonathan weighing his words carefully. "It may make the difference between keeping RangeMan and losing it."

"Then I'll lose it."

He hesitated, then spoke again. "It may make the difference between prison and freedom."

"I'll take my chances."

Jonathan glanced around the room. "Can you all please excuse us. Sandra, you can go as well. This will be off the record."

G clicked off her machine and stood, hurriedly straightening her skirt. B, C, and D scurried from the room after her.

"We're not involving Steph, Jonathan," I said, the second the room was clear.

"Listen to me very carefully, Carlos. If you testify, you are admitting culpability in the death of civilians. That alone could land you in a military prison for the rest of your life. On top of that, your entire mission was classified. This shit has top-secret, national security stamped all over it, and you want to blab it to the world.

"We both know that you are going to be court-marshaled," he continued. "And it's going to happen behind closed doors. I'm a damn good lawyer, Carlos. But if that panel decides that you're too much of a liability, then no amount of legal finesse is going to keep you away from a firing squad."

"They're not going to execute me."

"Carlos, I don't know everything you did while in the Army." He held up his hands and shook his head as soon as I opened my mouth. "I don't want to know. But I do know that you have classified information up the wazoo, information that no American citizen should ever be privy to. How long do you think it's going to take the powers-that-be to start thinking, 'if he's admitting to this, what's he going to admit to next'."

"There's no threat to national security in what I would reveal if I testify."

Jonathan nodded. "And we'll repeat that until we're blue in the face. But it might not be enough."

"I still don't see what having Stephanie sit through this will accomplish."

Jonathan looked me straight in the eye. "Because it means there's someone to make a fuss. Because it means they can't just convict you in a secret trial and execute you in a secret prison. They'll snoop into your life, and one look at Stephanie's background is all they'll need to know they can't touch you unless they want the media exposure that would go along with the fit she would stir up. And you two have a long enough history to make it all believable. The only thing worse would be being married to a fucking reporter."

I leaned my head back and sighed. Jonathan was right, of course. Families made you vulnerable to your enemies, but they gave you a layer of protection from the government. Soldier without ties were easier to use, easier to treat as if they were disposable. Which they were. Without a family, it would be easier to simply dispose of me. With a family, they would settle for ruining my business, my reputation.

"It won't be enough to save RangeMan, but it might keep you out of prison," Jonathan said, as if he were reading my mind.

"No." I'd take my chances with a firing squad before I'd give her a front row seat to what I'd done.

"All I'm saying is that if you are going to testify, Stephanie is the best shot of saving you."

I shook my head.

"At least take her with you," he said. "If you testify, then she's there. If you don't, then all you've wasted is her time. It'll be helpful either way."

I stared at him. The sweat on his lip had dried, but his eyes were still nervous. He was a good lawyer, and he cared about my welfare. We had been friends for too many years for him to be insincere. "I'll ask her. But I want your promise that if I start to testify, you will get her out of that room."

He hedged. "I don't—"

"That's the only way I'll allow this. You're right, her presence is necessary. But I will not allow her to hear all the shit that went down."

Jonathan nodded. "Fine." He stood and called the other lawyers back in. G settled in her chair and stared clacking away again. The sound was enough to drive me out of my mind. I took a shallow breath through my nose and tried to regain my objectivity. I tuned out the sound of B and C arguing over what I should wear the first day of court.

Fear was slicing through me, making each breath a little more difficult than the last. Not fear for me, for the execution Jonathan had all but promised. The fear was for Stephanie. For the way her heart would crack when she heard what I had done. For the look in her eyes when she realized I wasn't a super-hero. For what my life would look like when she was no longer in it.

…

I approached the small row house and paused on the front step. Outwardly, it was identical from the last time I had been there. I had no idea what it held on the inside. I hadn't seen or spoken to Stephanie since I left her apartment six months ago.

I had thought I had lost her then, but some small part of me had held out hope. I knew I would lose her now.

I rung the doorbell and waited.

The cop opened the door and stared at me. Stephanie was following him, laughing so hard she hadn't seen me yet. I took in the details in a split second, the flush of her cheeks, the sound of her laughter, her smile, the diamond ring on her left hand that glowed when she brushed the curls out of her eyes. She looked happy. She looked radiant.

And then she saw me.

For weeks I wondered what had happened in that moment before I rang the bell. What made her laugh that hard? And how, in six months, did she become that happy?

She stood beside Joe, her back ramrod straight, her face puckered and confused. She reached down and entwined her hand through her cop's fingers.

"Manoso," Morelli said. "Thought you left town months ago."

"I did," I said, my gaze never wavering from Steph's eyes. "I need to speak to Stephanie."

"So talk," Morelli said.

"I need your help," I said to Stephanie.

"She doesn't work for you anymore," the cop said.

"It's not for a job."

She still didn't say anything.

"Please, babe?" I said softly. "Just hear me out?"

She dropped her gaze to the ground, and then turned to Joe. "Can you give us a minute?"

He hesitated, then leaned down and kissed her lips. "Sure, Cupcake. I'll be in the kitchen."

She watched him walk away before turning back to me. "Come in," she said, "the neighbors are watching."

I followed her in a few steps and let her close the door. "Have you ever heard of the ICTY?"

"No, what is it?"

"It's a war tribunal. They're trying Serbian politicians and military leaders for war crimes in Bosnia and Kosovo," I said.

Steph crinkled up her nose. "Okay. And you're telling me this because…"

"I've been subpoenaed to testify about some things that…happened in Kosovo."

"You fought in Kosovo?" she said.

I smiled. She always loved any personal information she could get. "Yeah. I fought in a lot of places."

"So…what exactly do you need?"

I glanced toward the kitchen where Morelli had gone. I looked back at Steph. Reaching down, I grabbed her left hand. "Looks like you two worked it out."

Steph glanced down at her ring and smiled. A happy smile. Content. "Yeah," she said, pulling her hand out of my grasp. "We're getting married next month."

"Congratulations."

I took a step backwards. "My lawyer thinks it might go better if you're there when I take the stand. He said something about me looking less like a rouge soldier and more like an honest family man."

Steph's lips tilted upward. "An honest family man."

"I probably shouldn't have come," I said, taking another step backward. "I'll leave you…"

She cut me off. "When do you need me?"

I looked at her for a moment, but for once, I couldn't read anything in her eyes. "I have to be there on September 1st. If I testify, it'll take about a week."

"If?"

I didn't answer.

"Where is the trial?" she said.

"The Hague."

She gave me a blank stare.

"It's near Amsterdam, in the Netherlands."

Her eyes popped open. "You want me to go to Europe with you? For a week. So you look more respectable. _If_ you decide to testify."

"I shouldn't of come." My hand, of it's own volition, reached up and tucked a curl behind her ear. "I'm glad you're happy, babe."

She stared up at me with those crystal blue eyes, eyes that for years had kept me sane, grounded, gave me something to get lost in.

I turned and reached for the door.

"I'll come," she said softly.

I turned and looked at her.

She gave a ghost of a smile. "Did you really think I wouldn't help you if you needed it?"

I closed my eyes, not wanting her to see the depth of my relief, my astonishment, and not quite sure I could keep it off my face. I opened my eyes and smiled at her. "Thank you."

I reached out for her hand, but she crossed her arms and took an almost imperceptible step back, away from me. "I'll always help you, Ranger. But there can't be anything between us. I'm happy with Joe, and I won't let anything compromise that."

I nodded and put my hands in my pockets. I could respect her wish, was proud of her for demanding it even, but it would take all my control to stop myself from touching her hair, her hand, her skin.

"We're leaving next Friday. My testimony will start on the 3rd. I left the return date on the tickets open, so we can leave as soon as I'm done."

Or so she could leave at any point she wanted to, but I didn't say that part out loud.

"First class?" she said with a sly smile. The smile widened when I nodded.

"It's a long flight, babe. You'll appreciate the extra room. Keep you from going crazy."

"Guess I'm going to need a book or something."

"It's an overnight flight, so hopefully you'll be able to sleep. I'll pick you up at seven Friday night. We're flying out of JFK. It's a direct flight."

"And here I was thinking we'd get stop in someplace fun, like London or Paris."

"There was one flight that had a layover in Reykjavik Keflavik"

Her eyes got huge.

"Iceland," I said with a small smile.

"That would have been cool."

I didn't tell her that the inside of airports all look the same, or that the Charles de Gaulle airport in Paris is so far outside the city there isn't anything to see. I didn't want to say anything that would make that smile slip, slide down her chin until she was frowning again.

"Anything specific I should bring?"

"You'll want to be in a suit for the courtroom. And it's much cooler there, so bring a jacket. I have to check in with the UN on Saturday morning, but won't testify until Monday. So you'll have time to go shopping if you want. I'll get a company credit card in your name."

"No, you don't have—"

"Yes, I do," said softly. "I may have some paperwork for you to sign for the passport. Can I bring it here, or would you rather me fax it to the PD for Morelli?"

"I have one."

"You need a diplomatic one."

She nodded, faintly this time. "You're going to an awful lot of effort if you're not even sure you're going to testify."

I didn't know what to say to that, so I didn't. But she kept staring at me with those eyes that could always make me spill my secrets. Almost all of them. "There's a lot at stake, babe. It's not an easy decision to make."

Before she could ask any more questions, and thankfully before I could spill my guts, Morelli walked back into the living room.

Steph glanced at him, then back to me. "Send any paperwork to Joe, please. I'll sign it and have him fax it back to you. I'll see you next Friday."

"Don't forget to dress warm. Layers are probably best. And no sandals – you'll want tight shoes for a flight that long."

She nodded, and though I didn't move my gaze from her, out of the corner of my eye I could see the cop looking back and forth between us. His posture was tense, his hands clenched. "If you change your mind, or if this is going to cause problems, just let me know."

I opened the door and walked out without glancing back.


	5. Chapter 5

The Serbian/Macedonian border, just inside Kosovo

Wednesday March 31st, 1999

2:30 pm

We stared at the carnage for a moment, trying to assess what the fuck had happened in the four minutes it took us to arrive.

The KLA soldiers were scattered on the ground, some dead, some moaning. The Serb soldiers were no where to be seen.

Some of the refugees were dead. Others were on their knees, crying, wailing.

But some stared straight ahead, putting one foot in front of the other, oblivious to flying bullets and falling soldiers. Past the point of being able to fear for even their own safety.

They all ignored us, scurrying around us, the women gathering children closer to them, chattering in Albanian so fast I could only catch snatches of words: hurry, quiet, faster, don't cry.

"Get command on the radio," I said to Damon. "We're going to need an extraction team."

I was trying to remain objective, to focus on where my men had been taken, rather than the lives that were beyond saving. The keening wail of a young woman, rocking back and forth and crossing herself as she knelt over a child's body, ripped by objectivity to shreds.

I turned away and looked inside the empty humvee for clues. I found none. "Where are you, Aaron?" I whispered into the hot stillness of the interior.

I stepped back out and tried to stop a group of men for information, then some women. I pointed to my blue neck scarf, trying to show I was UN, the good guys. But my Albanian was rusty and they were too scared to respond anyway.

One young woman finally pointed North and said, in English so thickly accented she had to repeat herself twice, "Serbs come from there. Go with you friends."

"They took my friends?" I said, pointing to my blue scarf.

She nodded. "U.N. Yes. They take."

Damon and I set off in that direction, leaving the younger guys to watch the vehicles and communicate with command. We found the tracks from their tanks, footprints where they had exited the vehicle to shoot, sniper camps, and clear evidence of a struggle. But then the tracks faded to the unbroken line of tank tire treads, tracks we could never follow on foot.

By the time we made it back to the humvees and hour later, NATO helicopters were circling overhead.

The refugees were gone, the dead covered in head scarves and tattered blankets. One large helicopter, with red crosses painted on its sides, was being loaded with the wounded KLA soldiers with the red armbands.

"Serbs went North," I said to Tank. "Three jeeps, two tanks. At least 17 soldiers."

"They got ours?"

I nodded. The footprints on US issue combat boots were different than the ones the Serbs wore. "Three distinct sets of footprints from our boots."

One of the helicopters set down on the road that, moments ago, had been filled with refugees.

A middle-age, Hispanic man with the clear markings of an officer on his fatigues stepped down. His assessing eyes immediately found me, his angry stride carrying him over the rocks and broken pavement.

"General," I said with a nod once he got closer.

"Salute your elders, boy."

I ignored him. "They got Aaron Cayhill. Stone and Gonzales too."

"What the fuck happened here, Carlos?"

I told him about the Serbs firing on the refugees. I got the tape of the radio conversation out of the humvee and handed it to him.

"We have helicopters and a C-130 coming the area for the Serb convoy," he said. "We saw a band of refugees a kilometer to the West."

I nodded. "Same ones. They're from Djakovica. Aaron said there's some bad shit going down there.

"Damn it, Carlos! Are you not getting the concept of a classified mission? No contact with troops, Serb or KLA. The media is going to have a heyday with this."

"Forgive me if that's not my first concern right now."

He pinned me with his icy stare. Objectivity at its best. "There are fucking peace talks going on, Carlos. We have diplomats and negotiators working around the clock to stop this war before it goes any farther. I know you don't want another Bosnia any more than I do. But if they find out that US special forces – who weren't even supposed to be here! – opened fire on the Serbs, what do you think is going to happen at Rambouillet? That peace agreement will be worth less than the piss they wrote it with."

"Milosevic didn't sign it! They left Rambouillet a week ago. There are bombs pouring down on Belgrade, and you're still worried about the damn peace treaty."

"NATO bombs, Carlos. Not ground troops. You just managed to ratchet this war up a notch. Congratulations."

"Aaron was just doing what he felt was right. The Serbs were firing on the refugees."

"This is a goddamn battlefield. I don't want to hear right and wrong. I want to hear orders being followed. I want to hear 'yes sir' and 'no sir.' Am I clear?"

"Yes sir."

"Get back to base. Directly. We'll alert you when we spot the Serb caravan."

I had no intention of turning tail and returning to the base in Kumanovo. I knew Damon wouldn't either. We had never left a man behind, and wouldn't start now. But the General didn't need to know that. I turned and walked toward the two humvees, loaded up and ready for the long drive back into Macedonia.

"Carlos," the General yelled, forcing me to turn back around. "Straight back to base, you hear me, boy? No running out on your own. Your mama would cry if she knew half the shit you've pulled."

I nodded, and this time I did salute, because old habits die hard.

"Where we headed?" Damon said, when I reached the humvees.

"Djakovica. I want to figure out what the hell is going down. I'm guessing the Serbs are headed straight for Pristina, but I want confirmation before we follow them North, so let's head East for Djakovica first."

"What'd the General say?"

"That I'm breakin' my mama's heart," I said.

"You're mama's been dead for years."

"Guess that never made much of a difference to the General."

…

It took us 31 hours to reach Djakovica. Part of that time had been spent trying to disguise the humvees, and part of it hiding from the Serbs. Because we couldn't travel major roads, we were never able to move more faster than 5 or 6 miles an hour.

We reached the outskirts of Djakovica at 22:00 hours. Lester and Bobby pulled the humvees off into a grove of trees, and we climbed out to regroup.

"We're about a kilometer away. We'll enter the city on foot," I said. We had already stripped all UN, NATO, and US insignia from our uniforms, and in the darkness would appear Serb. I hadn't decided if that was more or less dangerous.

We had been listening to the radio, both the NATO chatter and the press. We knew the Qurim neighborhood was the worst, so we headed directly there.

I had been in the Army for five years, Rangers for four. I caught the tail end of Bosnia, witnessed Rwanda firsthand, and survived Somalia. But nothing prepared me for what we saw in Djakovica. And nothing, not in war or out of it, would ever surpass the atrocities we encountered there.

Albanian men, on their knees in the streets, were being executed by Serbian policemen against the backdrop of burning buildings. The sky, light by the flames of hundreds of houses, was almost as bright as noon.

But even that wasn't the sight that caused my blood to run cold, bile to rise into my mouth.

Every war I had witnessed had been governed by panic and chaos. Terrified young soldiers who got spooked and fired their rifles. Civilians who, in a blind panic, ran toward the soldiers instead of away. Officers who futilely barked orders before finally succumbing to the chaos. Children who had been left behind, crying.

Djakovica was different. There was no chaos there. Orderly lines of civilians were being led out of town at gun point by Serb soldiers. Bags were packed, children walked quietly with their mothers. Men were simply shot where they stood. Soldiers had clearly delineated jobs. Some led the refugees, some gathered supplies, some did the executions, and others lit the fires. Houses were targeted according to neatly printed lists.

This wasn't war. This was the definition of ethnic cleansing. The Albanians were shot or ushered out of town, the Serbs stayed and cleaned up the mess.

"Fuck," Damon breathed beside me.

"Have you ever seen anything like this?"

"No one's screaming."

I realized he was right. I had leaned years ago to tune out the sound of screams. It only got in your way. But this time, when I stopped to listen, there were no screams. I could hear the crackle of fire, the orders being issued in harsh Serbo-Croatian, the pop of gunfire. But no screams.

We split up, three teams of two in constant, whispered radio communication, and waded deeper into the Qurim neighborhood.

Damon and I, side by side, slipped from building to building, trying to keep as much cover as possible. The light from the fire was dimmer here, allowing us to stay undetected. Our uniforms might hide us from the Serbs, but our faces would give us away almost as fast as our accent would.

We turned onto Milos Gilic Street and crept down it. I looked up and saw a face in an attic window, pressed against the glass. I could hear a motor running, but couldn't determine which vehicle it came from.

About a block down the street, a lighter flickered, flashing illumination on a man's features: dark mustache, blue police jacket, M-16. The lighter flickered again, and the car that had been running flashed its headlights. It was an armored military truck.

Two policemen got out of the truck and walked into a house. That's when we heard the screams. A splatter of machine gunfire silenced them.

The two policemen came out of the house, spoke to the man with the lighter. They consulted a list and then walked into another home.

"This is fucking insane. We have to get out of here," Damon whispered.

"Yeah."

"Where the fuck is the KLA? Aren't they supposed to be protecting civilians?"

There was nothing we could do. There were six of us against thousands of well organized Serbs. We couldn't help anyone here. Couldn't do anything but escape, and report what we had seen. Hope for justice later.

We radioed the other two teams and, in whispers, agreed to meet back at the humvees. Damon and I crept down the alley behind the houses that sat on Milos Gilic Street.

I stopped in my tracks and looked up at a woman in a red head scarf. The red was bright against the backdrop of darkness and smoke and soot. She aimed an old Soviet rifle directly at me.

What I didn't know then, but would relieve every day for the next eight years, was that everything up to that point had been leading to this one moment. This one moment, one choice, that would hold the power to destroy my life.


	6. Chapter 6

Friday, August 31st, 2007

Trenton

The cop's car wasn't in the driveway when I came to pick her up. When she opened the door, a suitcase was waiting, stuffed full.

"Will Joe take care of Rex?" I said.

"I already took him Mary Lou's."

"Is this going to cause problems?"

She shrugged.

"Babe?" I was willing to take her with me, but I couldn't stand hurting her more than necessary. If this was going to destroy her chance for happiness, I'd call off the charade in a heartbeat.

"He'll get over it. He's not happy, but…" She looked up at me before continuing. "Actually he hasn't spoken to me in two days. But he'll get over it."

I set the suitcase back down. "Steph…babe…you don't have to…"

She laid a hand on my arm, stopping me with just that one simple gesture. "You're my friend, Ranger. And you need my help. That's the end of the conversation, and if Joe can't understand that, then it's his problem."

Then, as though she realized she was touching me, wrenched her hand back. She grabbed her purse and jacket and looked up at me expectantly.

I sighed and picked the suitcase back up. She had made up her mind, and I had learned a long time ago not to bother trying to change it. I could leave without her, but she'd probably follow me to prove her point.

We headed out to the SUV, and Tank climbed out to help with the luggage and hug Steph. "Hey Bombshell," he said. "Good to see you again. Lula told me to tell you hello, and if you don't call her soon, she's going to come up here and hunt you down."

Steph gave a watery laugh. "How's she liking Miami?"

"Loves it. Spends most of her time on the beach. But she's hoping this little trip of yours works and we can come back to Jersey."

Steph gave him a funny look, but he didn't say anything else. Just opened the back door and helped her into the truck.

I sat up front with Tank. I had a seven hour flight to sit next to her while keeping my hands to myself. No need to start the torture early.

The ride was silent, except the three times my cell rang. I ignored it.

The fourth time, Tank raised an eyebrow and shot me a look.

"Jonathan," I said.

"He on the same flight?"

"No, they're not coming until Sunday."

"Which flight is the General on?"

"I didn't ask."

I heard Stephanie shift in the back seat, and knew her well enough to know that she was desperate to ask questions. But she stayed quiet.

"What about Laurel?"

"She's flying in tomorrow. I tried to get her on this flight, but she has commitments at home tomorrow. We're meeting her Sunday afternoon in Amsterdam."

"She bringing Junior with her?"

We never called him Aaron, or Aaron Jr, mostly because we couldn't stand to say the name. She called him Junior too.

"No. He's staying with grandma," I said.

"Probably for the best. Be sure to give her a kiss for me."

I nodded.

"Who's Laurel?" Steph finally said from the backseat.

Tank flicked a startled glance at her through the rearview mirror and then looked at me. "What exactly did you tell her, man?"

I looked out the window.

"Just that he had to testify, and his lawyers wanted me there," Steph said to Tank.

He shot me a disbelieving glare before looking at Steph in the mirror again. "Cayhill was part of our division in Kosovo. He was killed, which is part of what Ranger is going to testify about. Laurel Cayhill is his widow. She was pregnant when Cayhill died."

"Oh. Who's the General?"

"General Manoso, Ranger's father."

Steph gasped. "Ranger, your dad is coming?"

Once again, Tank answered for me. "There's been a…falling out, so don't expect a happy family reunion. You'll recognize him by the uniform, the stars on his shoulders, but I doubt he'll speak to either of you."

"Oh." She was quiet for a second before saying, "And Jonathan?"

"Lawyer," Tank said.

By then Tank was navigating the heavy Manhattan traffic, so Steph let him concentrate. Before I was ready, he was pulling up to the departures terminal. He put the SUV in park. I sat, riddled with second-guesses. It was a rare position to find myself in, but one I hadn't been able to escape since I spoke to Steph eight days ago. He turned the car off.

Stephanie climbed out the truck and shut the door behind her.

Tank looked at me, his gaze as intimidating as it had always been on the battlefield. Maybe that was what this was. "You have to do this, man," he said. "You have to take her with you. It's the only way."

I looked through the tinted window to where Steph stood waiting, chewing on her thumb nail.

"This is going to destroy her." 

Tank snorted and restarted the truck. "If you don't know by now how tough she is, then you don't know her at all. Now get your bags and get the hell out of here. Get this done and get home."

I nodded and climbed out of the car. Out of everyone, Tank was the only one who never questioned by insane need to testify. I still wasn't sure if I would. There was so much to lose, more now that Stephanie would be there.

I grabbed both suitcases, and with my head, motioned her into the terminal. She watched Tank drive away before following me. We only waited a moment in the first-class ticketing line, and the wait was even shorter once the woman at the ticket counter saw the diplomatic passports. There were benefits to being a General's son, even if he no longer looked me in the eye.

I already had both boarding passes and passports back in my pocket when the ticket agent spoke to Steph.

"Have a nice flight, Mrs. Manoso. Our first-class cabins are quite comfortable."

Steph stared at her for a second before saying a quiet, "Thank you."

Shit.

I handed Steph her carry-on – I had sneaked a peak to see that it was mostly full of snacks – and directed her toward security. "This way," I said when she started to get in line. It was hell not touching her. Not placing a hand at the small of her back when we walked. Not taking her arm to guide her. Not brushing back that stray curl that kept escaping her ponytail.

I flashed the passports at security, who immediately led us through, around the metal detectors. While Steph was still blinking, trying to figure out what we were doing, we were halfway down the terminal hallway to our gate.

"What…why…"

"Diplomatic passports, babe. We won't get searched."

She froze and stared up at me. "Are you armed?" she hissed under her breath.

I gave her a disbelieving stare.

She huffed a sigh and kept walking, marching now, toward the terminal. I thought she might stomp, but she contained herself.

"You could have told me," she said once we were seated at the gate. "I spent hours getting little travel bottles and fitting everything into the damn zip lock. I couldn't even bring my hair gel."

I tried not to smile, but couldn't help the one that formed on my lips. Hair gel. "What brand is it?"

She told me and I called Laurel. "Do you mind grabbing it and dropping it in your checked luggage?"

When I hung up, Steph gave me a begrudging smile. "Thanks. You still could have told me."

"Sorry. I haven't flown commercial in years. I didn't realize there was a zip-lock rule in place."

"You should just be grateful they're allowing lipstick on planes now. You really would have had a crisis on your hands.

I grinned at her, and for a moment, it was as if the last six months had disappeared. As if I hadn't broken her heart and she hadn't agreed to marry the cop. As if we were both happy.

The moment broke. She stiffened up and leaned away from me.

A moment later first-class boarding was called and we got in line. Once again, I handed both boarding passes to the attendant. And once again, she smiled directly at Steph. "Have a nice flight, Mrs. Manoso."

…

"Window or aisle?"

She glanced at me askance. "You wouldn't actually sit in the window seat, would you?"

I let my gaze search the cabin once more before turning to her. "You're right, I was being polite."

She rolled her eyes and plopped in the leather seat. "Oh, this is nice."

I smiled but didn't reply. I sat in the seat next to her and turned my attention to the oncoming passengers. I studied each briefly as they boarded, watching for any threat. Several woman, sensing my gaze, graced me with accommodating smiles.

Steph crossed her arms when a third woman brushed my arm with her breasts on her way past. "I'm wearing a fucking ring," she said.

I raised an eyebrow. "That's not _my_ ring."

"They don't know that!"

If the ring wasn't a deterrent to desperate women, it certainly was to me. I studied it before shifting and looking back at the passengers. She was quiet until everyone had boarded and the door was closed. Then she rounded on me. 

"I want to see the passport."

"It's just a passport, babe."

She held out her hand.

I pulled it out of my pocket and handed it to her. I knew what she would see. Her picture, from her old RangeMan employee badge, and under it, the name…

"This says Stephanie Manoso!"

I didn't answer.

"Ranger," she said in a voice she rarely used with me. "Why does my passport have your last name."

"It's just a name, babe."

She kept staring at me. I sighed. "My lawyer created a false paper trail to imply that we're married. It will be destroyed when this is over."

"Married? There's a marriage certificate floating around?"

"A false marriage certificate. And it, along with the passport, will disappear the same day this is all over."

"And when exactly will that be?"

"Gee, Stephanie," I said, my frustration getting the better of me. "I don't know. Probably the same day the panel decides if destroying my business is enough of a punishment or if they're going to execute me for treason as well."

She froze. I closed my eyes and hung my head. It was those eyes. Those huge, crystal blue eyes that made me want to tell her the truth. Find absolution in her forgiveness. But some things were unforgivable.

I looked back up to find her still staring at me, those eyes wide and wet with tears. The grief and pain I could see amazed me.

"What?" Her voice was thick. She blinked back tears and sniffed. "Ranger…"

I didn't know what to say, what I could say. I was still frantically trying to figure out a way to keep her from finding out the truth. I didn't entirely trust Jonathan to get her out of the courtroom when, if, I testified.

"If I testify," I finally said, "I would reveal classified information. That's a capital offense, babe."

I reached up to touch her face, but remembered at the last second. Instead, my hand hovered for a moment, almost, but not quite touching her hair.

She blinked and I dropped my hand back into my lap.

"Then why would you testify?" she said.

"Because it's the right thing to do."

Her shoulders dropped as the tension left her body. She smiled, just a bit. "Okay."

I stared at her, floored. "Okay?"

"I know you, Ranger. You follow your moral code regardless of the consequences. It's what makes you who you are. That's why I'm here, right? Why you're passing me off as your wife? So there's someone around to throw a fit?"

Slowly, I nodded.

"Then okay." She turned to look out the window.

I couldn't breathe, couldn't speak. This woman, who I had tried so hard to hide from, knew me better than anyone.

As we started to taxi down the runway, she squeezed the armrest on her seat. As we started to lift off the ground, her knuckles turned white and her breathing changed.

I couldn't stand it. I took her hand and threaded her fingers through mine. She squeezed my hand, harder than I thought she could, until the plane leveled off in the air.

Then she look down and saw our hands entwined. She jerked hers away and tucked it under her leg before looking up at me with stricken eyes.

I flexed my hand, hating how bereft it felt now that it was empty. Hating the fact that I didn't have the right any longer to simply hold her hand. Maybe I never did.

"Are you happy, Steph?"

She nodded, the movement jerky.

"Do you love him?"

She nodded again, a little less hesitant.

"Did you ever love me?" I said, my voice so soft that I could barely hear it.

She could hear it though, because her face was instantly rearranged into a frown. She turned her head toward the window. "You can't love someone who doesn't love you back."

I stared at her profile for a moment, the tilt of her lips, the crease of her brow. "Sure you can," I said softly.

"No," she said, still facing the window, her voice overflowing with resignation. "You can't. You can't sustain it. It changes to resentment and anger. And with enough anger, you can stop loving anyone."

She turned to face me. Her eyes had filled with tears. "Even you," she whispered.

She turned back to the window. She fiddled with the ring on her finger. I watched as she spun it around and around. The dim light in the cabin played off the diamond, each time it faced the light in its journey, which was a stupid thing to focus on.

I took a breath and shifted in my seat, trying to ignore the pain lacing through my chest. It didn't work. I took another breath, but the pain just intensified, sharpened. "Why did you agree to come?"

She didn't answer.


	7. Chapter 7

Djakovica, Kosovo

Friday, April 2nd, 1999

3:00pm

The next day we left, driving down the Prizren-Djakovica road. It was littered with refugees. We radioed NATO command and told them what we had seen, but not what we had done. Soon, we turned off of the road that two weeks later, NATO would inadvertently bomb, refugees and all, and headed North, toward Pristina.

The mood was dark, sullen inside the humvee. I think we were all in shock over what we had seen in Djakovica, what we had done. I closed my eyes, trying to block it out of my mind, lock it up, remain objective. I had to, or else I would lose my mind. But I couldn't erase the woman's face from my mind. The red scarf.

I stared out the window of the humvee as Lester ate the miles, bouncing over the rocks, up and down the mountains.

It took a day and a half to reach Pristina, but I didn't speak the entire way.

A few hours outside the city, the General finally reached us by radio.

"You couldn't follow a simple order, could you, Carlos?"

"I don't leave men behind, sir."

The General hrrumphed. I couldn't tell if it was anger or pride. Maybe he didn't know. "They're being held in Pristina, and they're going to stand trial as spies."

"Are we doing an extraction?"

"There's prisoners of war, Carlos. They'll be treated humanely and released when the war is over."

I didn't reply.

"It's time to come back to base, son," he said, softer this time.

For once, I thought maybe it'd be better to simply follow orders. Maybe my judgment had faltered, and I should rely on his.

"Let me check the situation in Pristina, make sure an extraction isn't possible. Then we'll head back."

"No. We've managed to keep quiet the fact that Aaron fired on the Serbs, but this is still a volatile situation. You charging in will be the equivalent of dynamite. You need to let the system to its job. There are international laws in place for prisoners of war, and they'll be followed."

"You can't guarantee that."

"It's all over the media already. They've released pictures and videos of all three soldiers. The Serbian government is promising to follow the Geneva convention."

I turned off the radio and sat back in the seat.

I looked out the window as we drove through downtown Pristina. It had the same eerie feel that Djakovica had. Silence. A cloud of dust hung over the city, remnants from the last NATO bomb strike.

We parked both humvees outside the military prison where our men were being held. Only Damon and I went inside. I politely requested to see Aaron, and the warden agreed.

It took two hours of red tape, but then I was sitting across a table from him. "How are you?" I said.

"I'm okay. Plenty of food, even if it's shit, a place to sleep. They're following all the rules."

"Medical care?"

"Yeah. We're fine. You need to go back to Macedonia."

I nodded. "We went to Djakovica." I told him what we had seen. "NATO soldiers and human rights groups are pouring in, trying to catalogue everything. Maybe it'll help. Some KLA soldiers are headed there too."

He nodded. "Some of the shit those refugees told me…"

"It was all true."

"Fuck."

That about summed it up, and he didn't even know the half of it. I stood up to leave.

"Will you go talk to Laurel?" he said.

I knew what he meant, what he didn't say. That if he didn't make it out of this, would I take care of her. Of the baby. He handed me a letter that was in his pocket. I took it without looking at it. We shook hands, and I walked away.

Two weeks later, Aaron Cayhill was executed by the Serbian courts. I was already back in L.A. with Laurel when we got the news.

Two weeks after that, Stone and Gonzales were released. Jesse Jackson, of all people, was there to pick them up, give them a hero's welcome home.


	8. Chapter 8

Saturday, September 1st, 2007

Amsterdam, the Netherlands

A young man in fatigues met us at customs at Schiphol Airport. A light blue scarf was tied around his neck, a matching blue U.N. beret on his head. We had been whisked through customs, bypassing lines of weary travelers loaded with luggage. Yet another debt to my father.

The U.N. soldier shoved a clipboard at me. "Please sign here, Sergeant Manoso," he said, with an accent I couldn't place. Steph checked the messages on the satellite phone I had given her while I signed and handed the clipboard back.

"Would you like an escort to your hotel in Den Haag?"

"No. We'll be staying in Amsterdam tonight."

The man nodded. "I will meet you at your hotel at 8:30 am on Monday and escort you to **Churchillplein**."

He gave me a salute, executed a perfect turn on his heels, and marched away.

I looked at Steph, but she was asleep on her feet. Her face was pale, but that would probably be fixed with a nap.

"Was he in the Army?" she said.

"U.N. Peacekeeping force."

"Okay."

She had to be tired if that was the only question she asked. I pointed her toward the main section of the terminal, which also housed the train station. As we walked into the open area, I zeroed in on the train schedules, while Steph headed straight for the Burger King counter.

I caught up with her in time to hear her order fries and a large coke. "I'm going to like Amsterdam," she said when she caught my smile.

"Just wait until you try the fries you can get on the street."

Her eyes widened.

"Yeah, babe. They have vendors who sell only french fries, up and down every street."

This time I got a full smile, in spite of her fatigue.

"Come on, our train leaves in eight minutes. You can sleep on the ride."

She sucked on the straw in her coke. "No way. I want see everything."

True to her word, she stared out the window for the entire twenty minute train ride. She ooh-ed and awe-ed over every windmill.

"Have you been here before?" she said.

I nodded. "It's an easy vacation spot if you in Europe."

She raised an eyebrow. "I'll bet."

Inappropriate sexual banter entered my mind, as it always did around Steph, and I almost leaned down to whisper it. But then again, she no longer looked at me the way she used to. And that damn diamond on her finger kept blinking in the sunlight.

When we walked out of the underground train station in Amsterdam, Steph gasped and looked around with wide-eyes.

I leaned down and said, "Amsterdam is famous for a lot of things, but the architecture is my favorite."

She laughed and slapped my arm. "Right. But it is beautiful. I wasn't expecting this."

"Old World Europe at its best," I said, staring with her at the large clock tower, the first thing to greet all tourists. "What do you want to do first? Eat or sleep?"

"Um…"

"How about we take a tram downtown to the hotel and drop off our bags. We can walk to the Dam – it's only a few blocks – and get you fries. That takes care of eating and exploring, and then you can sleep for a few hours."

Her face lit up. "Perfect."

I just stopped myself before reaching for her hand, but instead shifted our luggage and grabbed us passes from one of the vending machines. Within minutes, we were on the crowded tram headed toward downtown.

She was staring, wide-eyed, at the huge buildings, all stone and softened with age.

"Most of this was built in the thirteenth century," I said, "but there are some early traces of gothic architecture too."

"This is better than Manhattan."

I smiled, much preferring ancient stone to modern skyscrapers myself.

"Ohhh…" she said a second later, when we entered the large square full of people. "Can we come here next?"

"This is the Dam," I said. "This is where we're going to come right back to."

She looked at me. "When you said Dam, I thought you meant, you know, rushing water and bridges."

I smiled. "It used to be. This was the main Dam over the Amstel River. They built their palaces here to intimidate Viking war ships."

She tilted her head, thinking. "Dam over the Amstel….oh! Amster-Dam!"

My instinct was the kiss her on the forehead. Tell her I was proud of her. I settled for the next best thing and winked at her. "You got it."

The next stop was ours. We dropped off our bags and headed back toward the Dam. In the large square surrounded by churches and palaces, her head was flipping each way, trying to take in the sights and smells and sounds despite the throngs of people surrounding us. She laughed with delight when she saw a clown on stilts putting on a little show for children. I led her to one of the fry vendors along the Damrak.

She gave me a funny look when I handed her the paper cone. 

"It's mayonnaise," I said, referring to the white clumps on top of the fries.

She wrinkled up her nose, forcing me to chuckle. "Just try it, babe."

She put one in her mouth and her whole face lit up. "Oh!" She sat down on a bench and started shoveling them into her mouth, liberally scooping mayonnaise with each. "This isn't like the kraft mayo at home."

"No."

"I don't know what the difference is, but this may be better than boardwalk fries with vinegar."

I raised an eyebrow. That was a staple of any Jersey girl.

She tossed the paper cone and napkins when she was done and started walking again, but I could see how tired she was. Though we hadn't spoken much on the plane, I also knew she hadn't slept.

"Come on," I said. "Let's walk back to the hotel. The sunshine will help with the jet lag. We can sleep for a few hours and then go explore some more."

"I want to see the red light district."

I laughed. "No you don't, babe."

She narrowed her eyes. "You think I can't take it."

"I think it can't handle you."

She rolled her eyes. A block later she stopped. "That restaurant says it's a pancake house. Like the IHOP?" she said.

I groaned. Leave it to Stephanie to find the pancakes.

She walked forward and looked at the menu mounted in the window. "Oh my god. It's all pancakes. They have breakfast pancakes and lunch ones. Look! They even have dinner pancakes, stuffed with meat and potatoes."

I pulled her arm and dragged her away from the pancakes. "Later," I said.

We made it to the Sofitel Hotel without any further pancake incidents. Because we were posing as married, I didn't feel like I could request two rooms, or even two beds. I did get a suite, and desperately hoped there was a second bed or a couch.

There was no way I could sleep in the same bad without touching her.

I sighed in relief when I opened the door to our room. There were two bedrooms off the main sitting room. Problem solved.

I pushed Steph's suitcase into her hands. "Go run through the shower and take a nap, babe. I'm going to wake you up in two hours."

"Two hours? That's all I get?"

"Believe me. It's all you want. Jet lag is a bitch."

She wrinkled up her nose. "I'll take your word for it." She went into her room and closed the door behind her. I heard the lock click, a slight noise, but one that reverberated through my heart just the same.

…

I knocked on the door to Steph's room two hours later. I could have picked the lock, gone in, eased her awake gently. But I didn't trust myself. If I had walked in and seen her asleep, I would have crawled in next to her. And nothing would have stopped me from touching her.

"Stephanie," I said through the closed, locked door.

I heard a muffled groan and a thud.

"Babe?"

This time the groan was louder.

"I have fries," I said.

She yanked the door open. "God, I love you," she said reaching for the paper cone fries.

I stared at her as she ate the first one, but she didn't seem to realize what she said. She wandered back into the darkened bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed. She was completely absorbed in her food.

I, on the other hand, was reeling. Simple, teasing words, and my hands were actually shaking. I turned and walked into the sitting room. Sitting on the couch, I dropped my head into my hands.

"You okay?"

I looked up to find Steph standing in the doorway.

"Yeah," I said, clearing my throat.

"Fry?" She held one out to me, dunked in the mayo. I took it, enjoying the astonished look on her face as I ate it.

"Rules are different in Europe," I said. Her face flushed. "Not that different."

"No," she said. "Not that different." She cleared her throat and wiped her hands on the t-shirt she was wearing. She didn't seem to notice her bare legs, but I did. "So what's up next? Food? Shopping?"

I smiled. I would have handed her the world if I could. Shopping would have to suffice. Though for her, it might not be that different. "Let's shop for a bit, then grab some dinner."

We ran through half the stores in the fashion district before I balked. She was holding the door to a lingerie store and looking at me curiously. No way in hell was I going in there. All I could see was her in lingerie, her naked, her skin flushed…fuck.

"Come on," she said. "If I'm destroying my marriage to be here, the least you can do is come inside and carry the bag."

Her eyes widened as she realized what she said. I took a deep breath before grabbing her arm and leading her to one of the benches that lined the pedestrian street we were on.

I pulled her down next to me, but let go of her arm before she could protest. "You told me Morelli was okay with this."

She fidgeted. "No, I told you he would get over it. And he might."

"You don't sound sure."

"Weeell, he left some messages on the cell phone you gave me."

"Give it to me."

"No. It's not important. I'm sure he'll eventually get over it."

"Stephanie."

She huffed, but handed the phone over. "This is such an invasion of privacy," she said, crossing her arms.

I punched in the code for the messages, and listened to the first one. It had been left at 9:00 last night, an hour before we boarded. I know she had checked the messages in the airport, so she had to have heard it before we left.

"Cupcake, if you get this before you get on the plane, please call me. Don't leave it like this. Please don't go. Just call me and I'll come get you at the airport. Please? I know you want to help him, but please…for me…just don't go with him. I'll come get you, just call me. I love you."

I skipped to the last one, figuring it would be the worst. It had been left at four am, his time. The words were slurred.

"That's it, Stephanie. All your shit, everything you own is now outside his fucking building. Hope you're happy with your choice. And you know what? I'll even let you keep the damn ring. How's that for fair."

I turned to Steph and raised an eyebrow. She shrugged. "He was drunk and mad. He'll get over it."

"This is seriously how you want to live the rest of your life?"

She gave her head a slow shake. "No. I'll finish it when we get home. I wanted it to work, I thought it would work." She turned and stared off into space. "I was happy, you know? But it was like I was always waiting for the other shoe to drop. Always wondering when it would end."

"Were you happy, babe? Really?"

She thought for a moment before answering. "As much as I could be. But there was a Ranger-sized hole in my heart." She gave a chagrined laugh. "Problem was, you were always larger than life."

"That day I came to talk to you, you looked happy. You were laughing."

She looked up at me, startled. Then her features cleared. "Oh, yeah. We had been watching some stupid movie."

Some of the tension left me then. Knowing that she hadn't left me behind nearly as much as it had seemed. 

"Are you okay?" I said. "About Morelli?"

She shrugged again. "I guess. My mother is going to throw a fit. This has to be all over the Burg by now."

I called Tank. "Where's Steph's stuff?"

"How the fuck did you find out about that half way around the wrold?" he said.

"The cop called."

"Yeah. He made quite a scene here this morning. Yelling and throwing shit at the building. Eddie and Big Dog had to come get him. We took Steph's stuff up to seven."

I hung up and looked at Steph. "Yeah, it's all over the Burg."

She sighed. "One more failure in the soap opera that is my life."

"Babe." I reached to take her hand, desperate to drive out what was going through her head, but she stood up, stepped away from me.

"You're still going into this store with me, Ranger. Don't think this will get you out of it." Her words were light, but her arms were crossed over her chest.

I stood and opened the door for her. I was going to have a killer hard-on for hours, but at that point, I would have done anything to get rid of the look on her face that made me think of a lost little girl.

…

She smiled happily at me as she cleaned her plate. "I think this might be the best food I've ever had."

"It's one of my favorites." Vetoing the pancakes, I had taken her to a tiny Thai restaurant downtown, on the south side of Oude Kerk.

"So, where's the red light district. I wanna see."

I smiled. "We're in it."

We were sitting at an outdoor table. She whipped her head around in every direction. "There's supposed to be, like, hookers and stuff."

I laughed. I pointed to the huge church. "See that? That's Oude Kerk, Old Church. It's the oldest church in Amsterdam, and in the heart of the red light district. Each of these side streets is covered with everything related to sex you could imagine. And plenty you couldn't imagine. There's also a museum, if you're interested."

She crinkled up her nose. "I'm not really an art person."

I winked at her. "It's a sex museum."

Her eyes got huge. "A museum? With like, art and statues? About sex?"

"Actually," I said, slipping some Euros into the bill folder. "I've never been there. Though I heard there are also videos being played."

"That might be a bit much for this trip."

I stood held her chair without touching her. "Come on. Since you're so adamant to see these hookers, I'll take you."

We walked down one of the side streets. The first time one of the women banged her fist on the glass to get my attention, Steph decided she'd had enough. We turned around and walked back toward Oude Kerk.

"They just stay in the little glass rooms?" she said.

"They have curtains to close once a customer enters their room. Keeps it both safe and private for everyone."

"Guess I know now why it's called the red light district."

I glanced back down the street with her, at all the windows lit up in red. "Yep. So what do you want to do now?"

She shrugged. "What else is there to do in this town?"

"Well, there are actual museums, including a Van Gogh museum."

She wrinkled her nose.

"There's a torture museum," I said.

"Now that I'm on board with!"

We spent an hour wandering through the dark interior of the torture museum, admiring all the medieval instruments. She kept asking me what each item did. Finally, I said, "I don't actually torture people, babe."

She blinked up at me, and then laughed. "Oh, I know you don't. I just thought you'd been here before. Or knew what this stuff was. You seem to know a lot about this town."

"The guys and I did come here once. Lester got trapped in that one over there," I said pointing.

She laughed, but when she started to droop, we headed back to the hotel.

"Aren't you going to take me back to one of the coffee shops. For, you know, _coffee_?" she said.

"Fuck no."

She stopped walking and looked at me.

"Babe. You're obnoxious when you're high. And you come on to me."

"I do not!"

I stared at her, and the flippancy of the moment faded. She looked away.

"Steph," I said, forcing her to look back at me. I wanted nothing more than to pull her into my arms. I shoved my hands in my pocket. "I'm trying to respect your wishes here, but I can only go so far."

Her eyes snaked away and she nodded. "I need sleep," she said in a small voice.

"I know." I signaled for a cab and held the door open for her. Within minutes, we were there. I handed her the room key. "Go on up and lay down, babe. I have some phone calls to make."

She nodded and walked to the elevator. I sat down on one of the benches outside. Even though it was late, the sun was just starting to set. I watched for a bit, trying not to think, as the sun turned the buildings shades of orange and red. Finally, when I couldn't stand it anymore, I went upstairs, hoping like hell that she had locked the damn door again.


	9. Chapter 9

April 17th, 1999

L.A.

I had only met Laurel Cayhill twice. The first time was at their wedding. The second was the night before we shipped out. Somebody had thrown us a party, and in spite of being pregnant, she had managed to be the life of it. It might have been her, actually, who had thrown the party. Her and Nadia.

I rang the bell and tried to brace myself.

She opened the door, took one look at me, alone and in my dress uniform, and knew.

"Is he dead?" she asked softly.

I shook my head. "We don't know yet."

She led me inside and we sat on the couch. I put the Ranger's beret on her coffee table. I remember that, distinctly for some reason, setting the hat right there. Seeing it still there two days latter when I finally left her house.

"What happened?" she said.

"He was tried as a spy and found guilty. They're negotiating with NATO about the sentence. We should know in a few hours, maybe sooner. Don't turn on the TV. They'll call."

She nodded, and we waited. It took three hours for the call to come, and by then, he was already dead.

Laurel sat silently, one hand resting on her still-flat stomach. One tear dripped down her cheek, then another. The tears sped up, coming faster and faster, until they consumed her. She bent down, wrapping her arms around her middle and resting her head on her knees, and gave in to the gut wrenching sobs.

I picked her up and carried her into the bedroom. I laid down with her and held her while she cried.

We stayed like that the entire day, her grieving, me regretting. Neither of us speaking. What was left to say?

Finally, after the sun had set and the room as covered in shadows, she sat up. "I need to eat something. The baby… The nausea is worse at night if I don't eat."

I nodded and dug up some soup and crackers from the kitchen. She ate what she could, which wasn't much. But it was more than I could choke down. I hadn't eaten much since Djakovica. I was loosing weight, loosing energy, and there wasn't a damn thing I could to stop it.

We crawled back in bed, laid there through the night. I don't think either of us slept, but what else do you do in the middle of the night?

When dawn lit up the room, she sat up. "I have to make arrangements."

"Do you think you should go to the doctor?" I said. "Check on the baby?"

She nodded. "Yeah. I should. Just to make sure. The stress, you know…"

I nodded, though I didn't really know at all.

I spent the day helping her. I called my father to work out arrangements for transportation of the body…Aaron. I called people, his family, old friends from the army. I pulled some strings and got leave arranged for our team, so they could attend the funeral.

Nadia showed up the next day and suddenly I was useless. I walked into the living room, found my uniform jacket and the beret. I set the letter Aaron had given me in Pristina on the coffee table, knowing she would read it when she was ready. Then I left.

…

The funeral was military. Because Aaron had been the first American causality of the war, President Clinton attended. Pictures of the President kissing Laurel's cheek, handing her the carefully folded flag circulated in the media for weeks.

Damon and I stood on either side of Laurel at the funeral. We were the ones who held her, felt her body shake as the guns saluted his casket. We had been leading that team, we had failed, and now she had to pay the price. Her and her child.

"It's a boy," she had whispered to me when I arrived for the service. "When I went to the doctor yesterday, like you said, they could tell."

I smiled at her through the haze of pain I couldn't escape. "And he's healthy?"

"He's perfect." She ran a hand over her belly. "It doesn't make up for the loss, but…"

"He was thrilled, you know."

She looked up at me.

I cleared my throat. "Aaron. He was happy about the baby. He'd be proud of you."

Her eyes filled with a never-ending supply of tears but she nodded. "I know."

She glanced between Damon and I. "I was prepared, you know. You can't love a man like you guys, and not expect the worst."

She and Nadia locked eyes, and the two women shared something I couldn't even fathom. The terror of wondering and waiting and worrying for months, never sure if the men they loved were coming home.

I saw Damon watching Nadia, and could see him coming to the same realization I was. That it wasn't fair to put women we loved through this. That they would have better off some other way. Any other way.

"But I don't regret it," Laurel said, drawing my attention back to her. "I would do it all again in a second."

Laurel and Nadia walked away, leaving me with Damon. We talked, went over what happened in Djakovica. Tried to find some other way that it could have happened. We couldn't.

He went back to Macedonia, but I didn't. A few weeks later, my father called. He had my discharge papers. I wasn't welcome back, even if I had been able to stomach going.

I used it as an excuse to stay in L.A with Laurel. I was there when Aaron, Junior was born. I was there when she needed a shoulder to cry on or a friend to celebrate with. And if she blamed me for Aaron's death, she never said it. But finally, I had to leave. She needed a life, more than I could give her.

I went the only place I could think of: Jersey. Where my grandma Rosa and my siblings still lived. Tank, Lester, and Bobby were waiting for me when I got there.

Tank just shook my hand and said, "What's next, boss?"


	10. Chapter 10

Sunday, September 2nd, 2007

Amsterdam

We met Laurel in the park behind the Rijksmuseum the next afternoon. She was sitting on the edge of one of the fountains, watching the kids run and shriek.

I was only about ten feet from her when she turned and spotted me. She stared for a moment, then launched herself to her feet and into my arms. I wrapped my arms as tight around her as I could and held her while she sobbed into my shoulder.

Steph wandered away to give us privacy, looking into all the small tents selling art prints and souvenirs.

I ran a hand over Laurel's hair and rocked her back and forth, murmuring words in Spanish that I knew would comfort her. After a few minutes her sobs slowed, and she buried her face in my neck and took big, gulping breaths.

"Better?" I said, not loosening my hold.

I felt her nod against my skin. "I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't mean to cry all over you. It's just been so long…"

"I know." I relaxed my arms a bit, but she seemed content to stay tight against me. And god knows that at that point, I needed the comfort almost as much as she did.

We walked back to the fountain where she had been sitting. I sat, and pulled her into my lap. She curled up and pressed her face against my neck again. I kissed the top of her head. "How are you holding up, querida?"

"Until the crying jag, I was doing pretty well. I dropped Junior off at my mom's house yesterday. He has a new video game, so was perfectly content. What about you? Are you going to testify? Did you decide?"

"I don't know, Laurel. I just don't know. There's so much at stake. For all of us."

"You don't have to, you know. I won't think less of you if you didn't."

I closed my eyes for a moment.

When I opened my eyes, she had shifted and was staring up at me. I pressed a kiss to her forehead. "That was from Tank."

She giggled, even if it was a bit watery. She wiped a hand under her eyes. "And how is Pierre?"

I told her about Lula.

She smiled. "I'm glad he's happy. And you? Are you happy?"

No. Not even close. "Close enough," I said.

"Carlos," she said, pressing a hand over my heart. "Would you…" She hesitated. I waited as she worked up the courage to say whatever it was.

"Would you hate me if I told you I met someone?"

I felt a pang, this knowledge that one more piece of Aaron had slipped away. But of all the people in the world who deserved to be happy, she was the one I wanted it for the most.

"He has a daughter," she said. "And he wants more kids."

I pushed a piece of her long blond hair off her forehead. "You always wanted a big family."

She nodded. "I loved him. Still love him. I always will. But…"

"Is he good to you? This new guy?"

She nodded, a genuine smile forming on her lips.

"Then that's all I need to know."

She leaned against me, content for the moment.

"Is that Stephanie? The woman with you?"

I nodded, glancing around for her. She was talking to an old, round man in an apron and eating fries. "She has a thing for the fries."

"Don't we all," Laurel said. "Every trip here means another diet."

I stood up and planted her on her feet. I looked her up and down and raised my disbelieving eyes to hers. She was still the goddess she had been eight years before.

"Okay," she laughed. "So I don't need to diet. But at some point, my metabolism is going to slow down."

I shook my head. "You could only get more beautiful, querida."

She swatted me on the arm and then wiped away the last of her tears. "I want to meet this woman, who has to be the only person on earth who will put up with you."

I took Laurel's hand and led her over to Steph. Steph studied me, searched my eyes, trying to figure out if I was okay. I gave her a small smile and she relaxed. She looked at Laurel.

"Babe, this is Laurel Cayhill. Laurel, this is Stephanie."

The two woman shook hands and exchanged pleasantries. They were as different as night and day, but seemed to take an instant liking to one another. Or at least relate. Laurel was sleek where Steph was wild. Stephanie was animated where Laurel was cool. But they were both amazing women, and in their own way, had each made my life bearable.

…

The three of us met Jonathan for dinner that night in the Hague. Lawyers B and C were also in attendance, but I didn't introduce them because I didn't know who they were.

"First off," Jonathan said once we were all seated with drinks. "Stephanie, Laurel, thank you both for coming. I think it will make a big difference in the outcome. Secondly, Carlos, tell me you've decided you're not going to testify."

I stared at him without replying.

"All right," Jonathan said. "You'll decide tomorrow. Now, are we still spiriting Stephanie out of the courtroom if you open your mouth."

"Yes. That's never been up for debate."

"Wait!" Steph said. "What are you talking about?"

I looked at her, not willing to even consider backing down. "You won't be in the courtroom if I testify, Stephanie."

"But that's the whole reason you brought me, Ranger. So that I'm there if you testify."

"I'm going to have to agree with Stephanie," Jonathan said. "It's going to cause a scene if you try to get her out in the middle of it."

"This is not negotiable," I said.

Stephanie crossed her arms and got that stubborn look on her face that I always dreaded seeing. "It's going to cause a bigger scene when they try to remove me from the courtroom and I refuse to go."

I caught Laurel smiling at her.

"Babe. Can we discuss this later?"

She glared at me for a moment before glancing around the table at all the people she didn't know. Finally she nodded.

I turned to Jonathan. "I'll give you our answer in the morning."

"Okay then. Now for the details. Carlos, you and Damon will both be in uniform. Stephanie, do you have something blue?"

Her eyes widened. "Of course I do!"

"And conservative? There are still a few shops open…"

"She's fine," I said. "Black suit, blue shirt." I caught her looking at me. "What? I snooped in your suitcase."

She rolled her eyes. Jonathan ignored us. "Laurel, we talked about white and gold for you."

She nodded. "White suit, pink blouse, gold jewelry."

"Excellent. Do you have a handkerchief? You were the grieving widow, after all."

She gave him an icy stare. "It's a little hard to forget, _Johnny_."

Lawyer B made some clucking noises while C ducked his head to study his notes.

Jonathan finally dropped Laurel's gaze. "You're right." He cleared his throat. "Okay, moving on. General Manoso has arrived and is checked into the hotel. It would be best if the four of you arrive together."

I shook my head. "He won't do a show of support."

"Well, I'll talk to him. But either way you will have a U.N. escort and security, of course."

Jonathan kept going over every mundane detail he could think of, but I tuned him out. About the time he paid the bill, Damon and Nadia showed up.

Damon had received the same subpoena I had and had, probably rightfully so, shredded it. He hadn't been the one, after all, to pull the trigger. He wasn't the one accountable. And he had more to lose than I did. I respected his decision, and he had shown up to stand by me, regardless of mine.

I shook his hand and gave Nadia a hug. "Still as gorgeous as ever," I said. She smiled at me. The last time I had seen her was at Aaron's funeral. She was older now, but the lines around her eyes only added to her beauty, giving her a maturity and grace she didn't possess at 22. She still short and curvy, but now her curves were pronounced by her round belly.

I left one arm around her shoulders and dropped a hand on the belly. "So when is Damon, Jr., going to make his appearance?"

She shook her head, her eyes twinkling. "It's a girl."

Damon groaned. "Will you stop telling people that? It makes me look bad. She refuses to find out if it's a boy or girl."

"I'm the mom. I know."

"Rachel knew too," I said. "Before Julie was born. I didn't believe her either."

She swatted me on the arm. "You'll have to come visit after she's born—"

"He's born," Damon said.

Nadia rolled her eyes. "After she's born, so I can rub it in your face."

"How are you liking L.A.?"

"It's nice," she said. "It's wonderful being so close to Laurel. She's been so great helping me through this."

I glanced around and caught Steph's eye. She was talking to Jonathan, who was probably grilling her on her jewelry or the length of her skirt tomorrow. I motioned her over and introduced her.

For hours the five of us – me and Steph, Damon and Nadia, and Laurel – sat around, swapping stories, catching up on each others lives. They all knew about Stephanie, though she had never heard of them. I kept sneaking glances at her, but she seemed to be having a good time. She told them about my Boxter and the garbage truck.

"There was a day," Damon said, "when Ranger would have killed a man for destroying one of his cars."

Steph looked at me and raised an eyebrow.

"Talk about explosive anger. This boy had a temper that could make your hair curl. Well," Damon said, looking at Steph's hair, "maybe it would make yours straight."

"I would have never guessed," Steph said. "He's always so controlled."

"Well that didn't happen until after—"

I cut Damon off with a look.

He cleared his throat. "Well, he grew up, anyway. Maybe I beat some of it out of him."

Steph glanced between us, but didn't push the subject. Laurel and Nadia, who knew exactly what Damon was about to say, quickly started asking Steph more questions about bounty hunting.

But the enormity of what was facing us tomorrow was never far from any of our minds, and before long, we headed for the hotel.

I had dropped our bags off earlier, but Steph hadn't been up to the room. There was only one bed. I was dreading her reaction.

While she was saying good night to Damon and Nadia, Laurel tugged on my hand and pulled me aside.

"I don't know what your and Stephanie's relationship is, so tell me if I'm overstepping my bounds, but…I'm a nervous wreck about tomorrow. Will you come up with me, just till I fall asleep?"

I looked down at her, at those eyes that, because of everything this trial was dredging up, looked almost as grief stricken as they had the day I'd shown up on her doorstep.

I brushed back a lock of blond hair and leaned down to kiss her forehead. "Of course."

When I turned around, Steph was watching me, her eyes narrowed. I led her up to the room and opened the door. She took two steps inside and froze. I ignored her, too tired and needing her too badly to be able to avoid touching her. "I'm going to run through the shower."

Five minutes later, I came out wearing only a pair of sweatpants to find her sitting on the bed, watching Dutch cartoons. "Feel free to sleep on the bed. I'll be back in an hour or so."

Her head snapped up. "Where are you going?"

I didn't answer, but instead left, locking the door behind me.

Laurel's door was unlocked, though she was already in bed. I crawled in beside her. She immediately curled up into me. "Thanks," she said. "I would have lain here for hours, replying everything in my head…"

"I know." I stroked her back until her breathing evened out. Then I stole another few minutes just to enjoy the contact of another body, a luxury I allowed myself so rarely. Stephanie was the only person I ever touched, and I knew she wouldn't welcome it now. Laurel's touch had never had the same effect on me, never would, but for now it was enough. It would have to be, because somehow I had to go sleep beside Stephanie without reaching out for her.

I slid out of bed, careful not to disturb Laurel. I left her a note with our room number, and to come knock if she needed me.

I eased the door to our room open, assuming Steph would already be asleep. She wasn't. She was still watching the cartoons.

"Feel better?" she asked, bitterness lacing her voice.

Of all the moments to have this conversation with Stephanie, this was not it. "Yeah, I do," I said. I stretched out on the bed, on top of the covers. That would have to be enough of a barrier for her, because there was no way I was going to sleep on the floor or the chair.

She stood up and put her hands on her hips. "Aren't you going to at least take a shower? Or does bed-hopping not bother you?"

I closed my eyes for a second before getting back off the bed and walking over to her. I stood too close, until we were nose to nose. "She was married to one of my closest friends, Stephanie. I'm the reason she's a widow. It didn't cross my mind to touch her the year I stayed with her, and it sure as hell didn't now."

She stared at me, her mouth forming a little 'o.'

"For months after Aaron died, she couldn't sleep. The only way she could even rest was if I was holding her. It was worse after the baby was born. This trial is…it's too much for her."

She lowered her gaze to the floor. "Oh."

I blinked, realizing I had said Aaron's first name out loud for the first time in eight years. I wished I had my cargo pants on instead of sweat pants. Anything with pockets. Anything to stop me from wrapping my arms around her and burying my face in her hair, from drawing on her to keep me calm, keep me sane.

But I couldn't do that, so instead, I grabbed her left hand. "Still wearing the fucking ring, I see."

She stepped back, jerking her hand away.

"Are you going to go running back to him as soon as you get home? Forget everything he said and did?"

She stared at me. "What are you doing?"

I took a step closer to her, forcing her closer to the wall. "Come on, Steph. Do you love him?"

She swallowed hard before answering. "Not enough."

"Not like you love me?"

She gasped and took another step back. "I don't…" She trailed off.

"Look me in the eye, Stephanie, and tell me you don't love me."

She shook her head and took a step back, this one bringing her back up against the wall.

I was almost yelling by then, taking my inability to deal with the situation out on her. I braced my hands on the wall by her head, trapping her. "Come on,_Babe_, say it."

"I hate you," she said in a whisper so soft it was almost inaudible. "I hate you. I don't love you, I hate you." Her voice was rising, her words pushing her, giving her the momentum she needed to lash out. "I hate you. You left me! You walked out of my life with no warning, no reason. You just…left!"

I looked at her, really looked at the hurt and pain in her eyes, and felt all my anger drain away. "And you know what?" I said softly, "I would do it again if it would avoid putting you through what's going to happen tomorrow."

I hung my head, eyes closed, trying to figure out where it had all gone so wrong. Where doing the right thing had hurt her so badly. I jerked when I felt her hands inch up to frame my face.

I didn't dare open my eyes, but waited, holding my breath. I could feel her take a tentative step forward, and then her lips just barely brush mine. I brought one arm down off the wall, resting it on her hip, pulling her just a hair closer. She took the next step toward me, deepened the kiss.

It was all I could take. I grabbed her, lifting her at the same time that I pushed her against the wall. I dipped my tongue into her mouth, tasting her, being driven farther by the sounds coming from her. I pressed one hand against her breast, shaping, squeezing it. She ground her hips into mine, and it was all I could do not to take her right there.

I finally managed to drag my mouth away from hers. "Steph, babe, we can't…"

"Look at me," she said. Her hands were still on my face, and she forced me to meet her eyes. Eyes that were full of emotions I didn't want to name. "Do you need me? Right now?"

I closed my eyes. "More than I could ever explain to you. But tomorrow…"

I let go of her, her feet dropping to the floor with a thud. I backed up and sat on the bed, clasping my hands together between my knees. "There's things about me that you don't know, babe. Things that I don't want you to know. That's why I wanted you removed from the courtroom tomorrow."

She walked over and knelt down in front of me. "You know I don't hate you, right?"

I nodded. I never thought she did.

"And you know I have no intention of letting myself be removed tomorrow?" she said.

That got a smile out of me. "I'm going to guess that you'll make a scene."

"I have no problems making scenes."

I reached up and threaded my fingers through her curls. "I can't do this to you, Steph."

"Yes, you can. You're doing what you feel is right, Ranger, and I'll never fault you for that."

I stared at her, searching her eyes, but all I could find in them was love.

She stood and pulled of her shirt, so that she was standing between my knees in only jeans and a bra. I took a deep breath and couldn't stop my hands from reaching up to her hips. I pulled her forward and pressed a kiss to her stomach, resting my head there. I took another breath, this one shakier than the last, and wrapped my arms all the way around her hips, anchoring her to me.

She ran her fingers through my hair. "Let me take some if it away," she whispered.

"You already have."

She placed her legs on the outside of mine and slid down to straddle me, bringing us face to face. "Let me. Please."

She leaned forward to kiss me, and without even meaning to, I kissed her back. I unsnapped her jeans and slid my hands in the back of them, squeezing her ass. She moaned and pressed closer, shifting against me.

Somewhere in the back of my hazy mind, I knew this wasn't fair to her. But at this moment, in spite of everything between us, she was willing to give me the one thing I needed most: her body, her passion, her love.

Suddenly we were rearranged, naked, her body lying her under mine. I touched every part of her skin I could reach, making up for all the moments over the past two days that I'd stopped myself. I touched her hair and her hand and her stomach and her face, and when that wasn't enough, I was inside of her, touching her even there.

Later, she threaded her fingers through mine, pressed our joined hands against her heart, and curled up into my chest. She slept that way, never moving away from me.

I lay there for a long time staring at her, breathing in her scent, know that in spite of everything, if I testified tomorrow, it would forever change me in her eyes.


	11. Chapter 11

March 4th, 1999

L.A.

I was still in L.A. when the General called. In the two weeks since Aaron's funeral, the pain hadn't abated.

"You're mother would roll over in her grave," he said by way of greeting.

I sighed. "What now, Papa?"

"I just got off the phone with Human Rights Watch."

A pit formed in my stomach.

"Some interesting findings coming out of Djakovica, Carlos. Seems there's this one woman…"

He paused. Don't say the name, I thought. Don't say the name.

"Tringa, that's it."

Her name ripped through me.

"See," my father said, "they're over there pulling bodies out of these mass graves. Trying to identify them, give them proper burials. But this one woman, she was killed with a nine mil. Right between the eyes."

I didn't respond. My father never started a conversation with knowing all the answers first. He wasn't expecting anything from me.

"Military issue gun, Carlos. American military. But see, they have a timeline. The order the bodies were dumped into the graves says something. Apparently, there were nineteen bodies jammed into three graves, and eighteen of them were killed with Soviet M-16s."

I still didn't say anything.

"Any ideas how a woman would end up with an American bullet between her eyes, days before NATO ground troops got there?"

"She was armed, Papa," I said. The same thing Damon and I had kept saying to ourselves.

"I'm sure. Do you realize what it's going to take to keep this under wraps?"

I had an idea.

"I'm sending you discharge papers, Carlos. I've managed to get you an honorable discharge, but that's the best I can do."

I closed my eyes and relief poured through me. "That'll be fine," I said. It wasn't that I didn't want to be in the military, it was that I didn't think I could go back to Kosovo. And with the war picking up momentum, that's exactly where my team would be sent.

"How was the funeral?" he asked after a minute.

"It was nice."

"I'm sorry about Aaron, son. But I know more than you think I do about what happened in Djakovica."

He hung up. The next time I spoke to him was eight years later, when I got the subpoena that would force me to relieve a moment out loud that for only one night since had left my dreams.


	12. Chapter 12

Monday, September 03, 2007

The Hague, The Netherlands

At five, I woke and stared at Stephanie. She was still asleep, her features soft, curled up into me. I reached out and touched her face, her hair, terrified that it would be the last time.

At six, my phone started ringing. Tank, Lester, and Bobby each called, wishing me luck, giving me courage. They had been there. They knew what was at stake.

"You better do this right," Tank said. "Lula's going back to Jersey one way or the other, and I know neither of us want to stay in Miami."

He was right. I didn't want to be in Miami. I wanted to be in Trenton, with Stephanie. But some things were out of my control. As I lay there and stared at Steph, the desire not to testify grew. The desire to simply say my line about classified information and walk out of the courtroom. Get back on a plane, go back to Trenton. She and cop had broke up, so maybe now there was a chance. Maybe last night meant as much to her as it had to me. As long as I didn't testify.

Because if I testified, I would have to walk away from her. I had done it once, and I wasn't sure I could do it again.

At seven, I woke her. She looked up and smiled at me. She kissed me.

"Go get in the shower," I said. "We have to leave in about an hour and half. I'm going to go get breakfast."

At eight, I put on my dress uniform. I'd had few occasions to wear it since Aaron's funeral. I put on the beret, the pins, the metals.

Stephanie stepped out of the bathroom and froze. "Oh my god."

I couldn't help it. I winked at her. She circled me, slowly. "Did I ever tell you I have a thing for men in uniform?" she said.

"You should have told me sooner, this has just been sitting in my closet."

She stopped in front of me and looked me up and down. "Are you going commando under there, because I gotta' say…"

I grabbed her and kissed her, hard. She swayed a little when I let go.

In a gruff voice, I used a line my dad had used on me more times than I could count. "Salute your elders, soldier."

A huge grin spread over her flushed cheeks and she gave me a saucy salute.

…

"Stephanie, you look gorgeous!" Jonathan gushed as soon as we hit the lobby. "Carlos, loosen up a bit. That uniform makes you look like you've got a hot poker up your ass. Smile, at least."

I glanced at Stephanie, who was trying not to laugh. "You do look amazing," I said to her. She blushed.

"Oh Laurel, there you are," Jonathan said, rushing past us. "You look perfect."

"I think he's nervous," Steph whispered.

We looked back to where Laurel was just coming down the stairs. She did look perfect. The white suit set off her blonde hair and brown eyes, making her look, even eight years later, just like the goddess we had always fantasized about from the photos Aaron carried around.

Damon and Nadia appeared a minute later.

"Oh my," Steph said.

I glanced at her, raised an eyebrow, and her face turned dark red.

"I told you, it's the uniform," she whispered.

"I'll have to pull it out once we get home," I said, forgetting for a moment that if I testified, I may not be going home. Certainly not with Stephanie.

I glanced at Damon, who was shaking hands with a beat-red Stephanie. His dark blonde hair was too long for his uniform, grown out to surfer length. I had cut my own hair short the week before, knowing that if my father saw the ponytail with a uniform he would disown me all over again.

"You couldn't have gotten a hair cut?" I said to him.

"I told him to," Nadia said. "But he doesn't listen to me."

Damon gave me the crooked smile that had earned him women all over the world. Before Nadia, of course. "What are they going to do, court marshal me?"

I shook my head. "God, you're as bad as Lester sometimes."

Stephanie giggled.

"You didn't know Lester when he was nineteen," I said to her. "He was worse."

A hush fell over the lobby and we looked up to see the General making his way down the stairs. He looked as strong and resolute and fear-inspiring, as he always did in his dress uniform. Damon and I snapped to attention and saluted.

My father walked up to me and looked me in the eye for the first time since he climbed off that helicopter in Kumanovo eight years ago. He didn't speak, except to say 'at ease.'

"Damon," he said, holding a hand out. "Nice to see you again."

Damon shook his hand. "You too, General."

He nodded politely to Laurel and Nadia and then turned to Stephanie. He let his eyes linger on her face for a moment before nodding and murmuring, "Mrs. Manoso."

And then he was gone. He stepped out the door and was immediately surrounded by U.N. officials who ushered him into a waiting car.

Jonathan bustled back up to us. "Okay. Carlos, you and Damon are going to walk on either side of Laurel. Stephanie and Nadia are going to walk behind you. There's going to be cameras, so just smile politely but keep walking. Do not stop, and for the love of god, no one speak to a reporter."

I blinked at him, trying to focus back on the moment at hand, rather than my father's retreating back. "Right, okay," I said.

"Now, if you start to testify…"

"She can stay," I said.

"Good, good. So Stephanie, you will sit next to Laurel in the front row. And don't forget that you're married now, so look appropriately sympathetic. Damon and Nadia will be right behind you. The seats are already reserved. Carlos, you of course, will be waiting outside until they call your turn."

We all nodded.

Jonathan's gaze bore into me. One drop of sweat appeared on his top lip. "Carlos," he said. "You remember your line?"

I nodded.

"Please, please tell me that you're going to say it. You're not going to go up there and spill your guts, right?"

"Probably not," I said. A collective sigh of relief escaped everyone. Everyone except Stephanie. She tilted her head and looked at me. "Probably."

…

A U.N. van drove us to Churchillplein street, where the tribunal sat. We climbed out of the van and walked up the steps in the order Jonathan had prescribed. Damon and I surrounding Laurel, protecting her; Steph and Nadia following, protecting us.

Cameras flashed, microphones were shoved in our faces. Questions peppered us in a gaggle of languages. I could understand some of them: Why? Will you testify? Do you have any regrets?

Other questions I couldn't understand, which was probably for the best.

The four of them were ushered into the courtroom, leaving me to wait. Alone.

I found a deserted hallway to pace, but the sound of my dress shoes echoed on the marble floor: click, click, click. The sound grew until it filled the narrow hallway, the glass panels in the closed doors boring into me like eyes, judging, accusing. I slowed, barely lifting my heels off the floor, trying to mask the sound. I inched down the hall, then around the corner to where the benches were full of people waiting through a recess for court to reconvene. Where, as I walked between them, my shoes were silent. Or if not silent, then dissolved in the voices, murmuring and whispering. Anonymity, if not absolution.

"You!" an old man gasped.

I turned and recognized him immediately. He was elderly, in his 70's now, with a shock of white hair standing straight up. A young woman with blue eyes, probably around 20, sat next to him. The woman I did not recognize.

I stopped in front of Hani and turned to him.

"You!" he said again.

The woman stood. "My name is Dorina," she said, in thickly accented English.

I could feel the blood draining from my face, evaporating, leaving me unsteady. The room started to swirl, and I couldn't focus on the woman's face. All I could see was that damn red scarf.

"Serbian soldiers held me for four months," she said. "Would you like to know what they did to me?"

I was pretty sure I knew, though I couldn't even begin to fathom it. She told me, some of it. Some, I'm sure, she held back in deference to her grandfather, because no man should ever have to hear those things happening to his little girl.

Dorina reached for my hand. I let her take it, and wondered if it felt as icy to her as it did to me.

"I will forgive you," she said, "I _will_ forgive you. But please, I beg you, go in there and tell the truth. Tell them what happened to my family. Tell them what happened to me."

She stared at me with those big blue eyes, full of tears that weren't falling. "_Molim_," she whispered. Please. "_Molim_."

For the second time in my life, I watched her walk away from me, that word echoing in my head. Maybe it had never stopped.

The old man, still seated in front of me, leaned down and spit on my shoe. I didn't react. I owed him that much at least. "She is good girl," he said in Serbo-Croatian. "She will forgive you. But I will see you in hell."

The old man stood and hobbled down the hallway after his granddaughter. I turned and saw Stephanie standing, staring, her eyes wide and wet. She turned and walked away as well, leaving me alone. I wouldn't see her again until I was sitting in the witness box, trying to reach her across a sea of people and courtrooms and regret.

…

A tribunal looks different than a courtroom. There's a panel instead of a judge. There's no jury off to the side. Instead of neat rows of chair for those in attendance, there are tables with headphones at each chair, so that everyone can listen in their native language.

But some things are the same. The censure on the faces of hundreds of people as you place your hand on a bible and swear to tell the truth. The pit of fear curling in your stomach as everyone waits to hear you, judge you. The swagger of defense attorney as he walks up to you.

We went through the standard questions: my name, my military rank, my employment, my address. Then came the question I was dreading: "Can you please explain for the tribunal your actions on Wednesday, March 31st, 1999, in or about Kumanovo, Macedonia.

Could I? Could I possibly explain what we had seen, what we had done? Why we had chosen the course of action that we had?

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Damon nod, answering my unspoken question. But my eyes were on Stephanie.

In my mind, I could see the woman in Djakovica, Tringa. The red scarf she was wearing, the Soviet rifle she held. I could see the policeman, lit up by that single flame; the entire town lit up by the flames of a hundred houses.

But even more strong in my mind was the one night when the events Djakovica had been exorcised from my dreams. The night I had spent in Stephanie's arms, buried inside her forgiving body. Taking every once of redemption I could from her.

Aaron's voice ran through my head, his insistence when he refused to follow my orders. When he refused to do the easy thing and instead raced to protect a band a refugees that were probably already beyond saving.

And I thought back to the night in Djakovica. That one moment that changed everything. Once again, I was faced with a choice. And once again, either choice required a tremendous sacrifice.

I was still staring at Stephanie. I mouthed one word: 'Babe.' I know she understood when her eyes filled with tears. They were still eyes filled with love. I looked away. I couldn't bear to see the moment when those eyes would stop seeing a super-hero, and would instead see a monster.

The defense council was waiting, smug, sure that I would parrot my line and through that, absolve Milutinovic from guilt. Or at least invalidate a conviction. A death sentence. The tribunal, the courtroom, everyone was waiting to see if I'd answer.

I looked at my father. For the first time in nearly eight years, I could see pride in his eyes.

I looked at Laurel. Her eyes were full of tears, her handkerchief pressed to her mouth. She needed to hear the truth too, that her husband died a hero, not just another captured prisoner of war as she'd been told.

My lawyers had told me what to say, the line they had drilled it into my head. _As an American soldier, I am not at liberty to discuss classified information or wartime troop activity._ I wanted to say it. I wanted to so badly my feet were already moving, ready to get me out of there. But of their own volition, my eyes locked with Dorina's, and I knew what I had to do. I wasn't doing it for her or my father or for Laurel or even for Aaron. Though any of those reasons should have been enough. I certainly wasn't doing it for Stephanie, who I knew would never forgive me.

I was doing it because my father was right. For once in my fucking life I had to do the right thing. Of course, what my father didn't know is that for the past eight years, day in and day out, I had been doing the right thing. Even when it would have been easier, more convenient, more economical not to, I had lived by the moral code that Aaron had died for. If he had just backed down, turned his back, not fired on those Serbs…

But the past eight years of doing the right thing, the only way I had been able to make any sense out of Aaron and Tringa's deaths, would all unravel if I took the easy way out now.

I planted my feet and looked at the defense attorney. I started speaking, my words firm and sure. My eyes didn't waver from his as I worked my way through that Wednesday, starting with sighting that band of refugees outside of Kumanovo. Through everything that had happened. I didn't gloss over any of the horrific details, not even my own actions. I never looked back at Stephanie. I knew I had lost her.


	13. Chapter 13

Djakovica, Kosovo

Thursday, April 1st, 1999

11:30pm

I stopped in my tracks and looked up at woman in a red head scarf. The red was bright against the backdrop of smoke and soot. She aimed an old Soviet rifle directly at me.

Without even thinking, I shot her.

One shot.

She tipped forward, falling, the red scarf drifting down slower, resting over her head like a burial shroud.

As she fell, we saw what she had been hiding. A girl. A young girl, stood where her mother, a moment ago, had been standing. She stared at me.

I stared back. The pistol in my hand started to shake. Damon reached over and grabbed it, taking it out of my suddenly frozen hands.

A Serb soldier, who I didn't even realize was behind me, laughed and walked past me toward the little girl. He slapped me on the back. "Thanks, brother," he said. Not _hvala lijepo_, the formal 'thank you' in Serbo-Croatian. But _hvala blizak prijateli_. 'Thanks, brother.' Friend.

He grabbed the little girl by the arm. She screamed – the first sound she made. _Ne diraj me!_ I flinched. 'Don't touch me.' She screamed it over and over. _Ne diraj me!_

A second soldier walked past, also hitting me on the back. He puffed on a cigarette. He smiled at me, then squinted. "Hey, aren't you NATO?" he said in Serbo-Croatian.

"Yes," Damon said. The informal _ja_ rather than the formal _da_. We were all friends.

The soldier leered. "I knew it. I knew you guys were on our side. Hey Novak," he called, "they're fucking NATO."

The first soldier walked back up to us, dragging the little girl. She was kicking and screaming, tears making white tracks through her dirt-smeared cheeks.

She looked at me and stopped fighting. She looked me directly in the eye. "_Molim_," she whispered. "_Molim_." Please.

Her dark blue eyes seared into mine. "_Molim_," she whispered again.

The soldiers shook Damon's hand, slapped me on the shoulder, then walked away. The little girl – though she couldn't have been that little, her legs were long and she was kicking hard enough for the soldier to wince – continued screaming. "_Upomoć_!" Help me. _Upomoć._

I stood. Frozen.

…

Damon and I staggered back to the grove that hid the humvees, not speaking. I was trying to remain objective, trying to excuse myself. The woman was armed. We looked like Serbs. She would have shot us.

The excuse wouldn't have sounded so hollow if the gun hadn't been so old and rusted out that it couldn't have even held a bullet, let alone fired one. If she hadn't only been attempting to protect her child.

I heard a whoosh and stopped to look back. The house where the woman had been standing had gone up in flames.

We watched the fire in silence for a moment before turning and stumbling back down the road, toward the edge of town.

It was almost two a.m. before we met up with the other guys. Damon took charge immediately, knowing I was in no shape to speak, let alone lead anyone.

…

We waited, hiding, until the next morning. We smeared dirt on our faces and headed back to Djakovica. Back into the Qurim neighborhood. Tank and Bobby stayed with the humvees. In broad daylight, their black skin would have given them away.

Damon, Lester, Jackson and I picked our way back to Milos Gilic street. A haze of ashes and soot hung over the city, a cloud that would have muffled any noise. But there was nothing to muffle. The town was silent, empty. Any civilians who hadn't been run out were in hiding. I didn't learn until later that close to a hundred thousand people had been forced out. Seventy-five percent of the population of Djakovica. Fled. Ran. Died.

We reached the house: 163 Milos Gilic. It was a pile of rubble. No sign of survivors. No sign of the little girl. I looked up at the house down the block where we had seen the man in the attic the night before. But the window was empty. Damon went and knocked on the door, but no one answered.

"There's nothing we can do," Damon said.

"I know," I whispered. The first words I had uttered.

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught sight of a small, elderly man peeking around a building. He had a shock of hair standing straight up that was probably white, but now coated with soot.

He saw me, but didn't duck out of sight. Instead, he stared at me, assessing. I walked toward him.

"Are you NATO?" he asked in a ragged voice.

Was I? Could that change? In war, one side was good and one was evil. Could you change sides without even realizing you had done it? I nodded once.

The little man threw his spindly arms around me. "Oh thank god you're here. You have to help me. They killed them. They killed them all. My family."

I pointed to the house, number 163. "Is that where they were hiding?" I asked in rough Serbo-Croatian.

"Yes. Yes. But this morning, they collected the bodies. There were only nineteen."

I took a shallow breath through my nose. Nineteen bodies.

"They were burned, charred," the old man continued, tears now pouring down his face. "They wrapped them in a blanket. There was only one blanket. But there were only nineteen. I counted. My granddaughter, Dorina, she wasn't there."

"How old is she," I asked, the pit in my stomach growing.

"She's eleven. She has blue eyes. She's small for her age. The smallest of the girls. I looked. They didn't pull her out." He rubbed his dirty hands over her face. "They didn't pull her out," he whispered again, his voice shattering.

I tried to take a breath, but couldn't. It was as though the smoke and soot and shame had permeated the air so that I couldn't breathe it in without choking to death. Suffocating.

"Did you see her?" the old man asked. "Did you see Dorina?"

I opened my mouth to speak, but gagged instead. So I nodded.

The man's face, covered in deep lines and cavernous wrinkles, lit up. "You did? Is she okay?"

Slowly, I forced myself to shake my head. "She was t-taken."

One wrinkle at a time, it seemed, the man's face fell, drooped. His shoulders hunched and his knees buckled.

I caught him before he hit the ground, and he clung to me, sobbing. "My Dorina," he gasped. "My precious little Dorina."

"There will be more soldiers soon," I said, forcing my voice to stay calm, even. Not to crack. "And human rights groups. They'll find her for you." It was an empty promise, and we both knew it. But I gave it and he nodded.

I stepped back from the old man. Before I could think better of it, I asked him what his name was.

"Hani," he said. His voice seemed to be fading along with the rest of his small body.

"And your daughter? Dorina's mother?"

"Tringa."

"Tringa," I repeated. I turned to walk away.

"Wait! You're NATO, you can help. Look for her, please!"

There was that word again. Please. _Molim_. It hadn't stopped echoing through my head since Dorina had whispered it to me. I wasn't sure if it ever would.

I forced myself to walk away from Hani, to not look back.

"Come on," I said to Damon when I reached him. "There's nothing we can do here."


	14. Chapter 14

International Criminal Tribunal for the Former Yugoslavia

Monday, September 3rd, 2007

"Dorina," I said.

"Excuse me?" the defense attorney said.

"Dorina. That was her name." My eyes found hers across the courtroom and held. "The girl who was kidnapped as a result of my actions. Her name is Dorina, and she was eleven years old. She was held for four months by Serbian soldiers in horrific conditions."

Her eyes teared, but she held my gaze.

The attorney questioning me walked toward the witness box. "Why did you kill Tringa?"

I didn't glance away from Dorina, even though my eyes were heavy with remorse, so heavy it was almost impossible to hold her gaze. But she deserved the truth. "Because it was the most efficient way to proceed."

The courtroom gasped. But someway, somehow, I heard Stephanie's gasp above all the others. It was sharper, more betrayed. More disappointed.

"Efficient?" the attorney said. "That's your excuse?"

I finally looked back at the man in front of me. "I don't have an excuse. I can't tell you that at the time I thought it was the right thing to do, because right and wrong didn't even enter my mind. I was a soldier, a well-trained one. I did what was most efficient."

"Then why tell us now?"

"Because in the intervening years, I have stopped to think about right and wrong. And this _is_ the right thing to do."

I could see Dorina's face. I saw her lips move, heard her voice, thick with her accent – but surely I couldn't hear it, across a room full of people all talking, condemning. "Thank you," she whispered.

I knew the prosecutor would send the transcripts to the Army. RangeMan would lose its government contracts, probably be shut down. Stephanie would go home to her cop. Maybe I would be court marshaled, maybe go to prison, maybe worse. The life I had built, in the moment it took to recount that one day, that one mistake, had vanished. But those whispered words and the relief I could see on Dorina's face, made it worthwhile. Almost.

…

The defense council spent another hour going over the details, trying to trip me up, trying to place the blame back on me.

Finally, he threw his hands up in the air. "We're finished with this witness," he said.

One of the panel members looked at me. "You're excused, Sergeant Manoso."

I let that word bounce around in my head before I stood and walked toward the doors of the courtroom. _Excused_. Was I? I didn't feel a sense of relief at revealing my secret, coming clean. No sense of righteous superiority for doing the right thing.

I was aware of Stephanie's eyes on me as I walked down the center aisle, and all I could feel was loss.

…

Damon caught up with me in the hallway. "They've recessed for the day," he said. "So we can go whenever."

I nodded. "I'm going to stay here for a while. Take Steph with you, will you? She has a direct flight to JFK."

Damon nodded. "I'll get us all on the same one."

We had been friends for too long, knew each other too well, for me to have to explain my request.

I stared to walk away, but before I could, my father approached to me. With wary eyes, I watched him draw closer until he stopped, raised his arm, and saluted.

My father was a General. He didn't salute anyone. Men the world over would get down on their knees to salute him. In his world, this was an honor bestowed only upon those most deserving.

I slowly raised my arm, elbow bent, wrist straight, and saluted him back.

We both lowered our arms and reached forward to hug me. "Your mama would be proud, boy. I'll expect you and Stephanie at Christmas."

He walked away. I glanced over at Damon, who's mouth was hanging open.

"Holy fuck," he said.

"Yeah."

"You know that the last person he saluted was the President, right?"

My mind wasn't working quite properly. "I thought I saw him salute Rumsfeld on TV a couple years back."

We looked at each other and laughed. But by then, people were making their way out the courtroom. The reporters would come next. "I have to go," I said.

He nodded. "I'll take care of Stephanie."

I turned to walk away, but came face to face with Dorina. "_Hvala blizak prijateli"_ she said. Thank you, friend. The same thing that the Serb soldier had said to me when I shot her mother. "_Hvala_," she repeated.

"I should have protected you," I whispered.

"Yes." She stood on her toes and kissed my cheek. Then she took Hani's hand, and they made their way down the hallway.

I stood. Frozen.

And finally, the sense of relief I had been searching for for eight years enveloped me. Peace. I could never forget, but maybe I could forgive myself enough to move on.

Then I felt a hand slide into mine, and my heart stopped beating. I knew that hand. I knew it's curves and contours, the lines of it, and the warmth and the feel of it. Most of all, I knew that touch. I took a deep breath as the first wisp of hope started curling through my chest.

I squeezed her hand. She squeezed back.


	15. Chapter 15

One year later…

They didn't court marshal me. Jonathan had been right. Some background checks were conducted on Stephanie and the whole thing was dropped. Once again, she had saved me.

They did try to destroy RangeMan. But the six months of fortifying we had done before the trial was just enough. We were able to go back to Trenton, on a smaller scale, and build up non-government contracts.

Maybe it was for the best. At the very least, it gave us more free time. And it meant no more missions, no more disappearing for weeks or months at a time.

And it meant, for the first time since I had joined the Army, that I had a lifestyle that just might be able to accommodate a relationship.

I stared at Stephanie, waiting for her to wake up. She finally did, blinking slowly. "Morning," I said.

She smiled at me. "Mmm, good morning." She sat up and glanced around the room. My dress uniform was scattered everywhere. "I do love a man in uniform," she said.

I gave her a wolf grin. "No time now, Babe. We need to leave for the airport in an hour."

She got up and started looking around for clothes. "You're going to take me to one of those restaurants this time, right?"

I raised an eyebrow like I didn't know what she was talking about.

She stopped, a shirt half-way on, and huffed at me. "Ranger, you promised. You said, and I quote, 'the next time we're in Amsterdam, I will take you to one.' Well, this is your chance."

I groaned.

"And you're going to take me to a coffee house too, and the sex museum. And maybe the torture museum again."

"Any particular order we do all this in?"

She plopped back down on the bed by me and grinned. "The pancakes first. Just think, a whole restaurant devoted only to pancakes, breakfast, lunch, and dinner." She paused to smack her lips. "I can't wait."

…

Most information for the events occurring in Djakovica on April 1st comes from the testimony of Mr. Hani Hoxha and compilations by Human Rights Watch and the Council for the Defense of Human Rights.

In chapter four, the man in the attic, watching; the policeman with the lighter flicking twice as a code; the order which prevailed in the city was all documented by HRW. In regard to chapter two, here was no evidence of refugees on the road where the three soldiers were captured. The only reason given for the capture was that their humvee, separated from the other two in its group, inadvertently crossed into Serb territory.

As for as I know, no American soldiers, special forces or otherwise, entered Djakovica during this time period. The massacre that befell the Vejsa family (Tringa and Dorina) is alleged to be entirely attributable to Serbian police, soldiers, and civilians (according to HRW and ICTY documents). At least twenty members of the Vejsa family were killed on April 1st, including both Tringa and Dorina. Only two family members survived, an eight year old boy, and Hani Hoxha, Tringa's elderly father.

President Milutinovic is currently standing trial in front of the International Criminal Tribunal for the Former Yugoslavia, in the Hague. The defense is scheduled to begin in September 2007. His fate is yet to be decided.


End file.
